Come grow old with me. The best is yet to be.
The mind that is wise mourns less for what age takes away; than what it leaves behind.
A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free.
The monumental pomp of age Was with this goodly personage; A stature undepressed in size, Unbent, which rather seemed to rise In open victory o'er the weight Of seventy years, to loftier height.
But an old age serene and bright, and lovely as a Lapland night, shall lead thee to thy grave.
Books are yours, Within whose silent chambers treasure lies Preserved from age to age; more precious far Than that accumulated store of gold And orient gems, which, for a day of need, The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs. These hoards of truth you can unlock at will.
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