What is gone, makes room for gain elsewhere.
It begs the alert of my tardiest self, how people can appreciate so little for their gift of time that examine how I manage to make so much of mine. It is not that we’ve a slender allocation, or for my part, must have wrung the greater share, but simply; well spent is spare enough. The world is rife of cracked crops, flimsy deeds and oath-sayers who saunter by the seeding season to fuss a Springs plenty missed. The passive hours accumulate, the margin for gain at the widest is brief. Than rather neglected wilt or sprout not at all, stay the hands to sowing, and abundance tomorrow reap.