Thou art my single day, God lends to leaven What were all earth else, with a feel of heaven.
Fail I alone, in words and deeds? Why, all men strive and who succeeds?
Stung by the splendour of a sudden thought.
The aim, if reached or not, makes great the life: Try to be Shakespeare, leave the rest to fate!
Every one soon or late comes round by Rome.
God is the perfect poet.
