the fast types always die first
They burn, fizzle, frazzle and expire.
A common philosophy but overlooked always.
Always a rush, always impatient.
A patient and developed
Man of unremitted
Manners has about him
A Aire of calm reserve.
Reserve has always served me a greater good
That has an altogether ilk of greater import
Than hurried dandering in the pelage of desperation.
A child is corrupted each day by this.
An old man has no other choice about him.
His is a fact of fate.
A child has all his life
But sees nothing but a blur.
About him comes a stress of blunder,
Reproach and unsuccess that springs from not fullfilling
These hurried expectations