Here lies interred in the eternity of the past, from whence there is no resurrection for the days -- whatever there may be for the dust -- the thirty-third year of an ill-spent life, which, after a lingering disease of many months sank into a lethargy, and expired, January 22d, 1821, A.D. leaving a successor inconsolable for the very loss which occasioned its existence.
To divide one's life by years is of course to tumble into a trap set by our own arithmetic. The calendar consents to carry on its dull wall-existence by the arbitrary timetables we have drawn up in consultation with those permanent commuters, Earth and Sun. But we, unlike trees, need grow no annual rings.
The return of my birthday, if I remember it, fills me with thoughts which it seems to be the general care of humanity to escape.
I'm sorry you are wiser, I sorry you are taller; I liked you better foolish and I liked you better smaller.
Our birthdays are feathers in the broad wing of time.