Nature fits all her children with something to do, he who would write and can't write, can surely review.

Life is a sheet of paper white / Whereon each one of us may write / His word or two, and then comes night.

Though old the thought and oft exprest, Tis his at last who says it best.

It may be glorious to write Thoughts that shall glad the two or three High souls, like those far stars that come in sight Once in a century.