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What the hell am I waiting for? I felt like I've been waiting for something for the past several days. But what is it?

I just found a nifty poem in, of all places, the phone book.

"It is too late!" Ah, nothing is too late --

Cato learned Greek at eighty; Sophocles

wrote his grand "Oedipus," and Simonides

Bore off the prize of verse from his compeers

When each had numbered more than fourscore years;

And Theophrastus, at fourscore and ten,

Had begun his "Characters of Men."

Chaucer, at Woodstock, with his nightingales,

At sixty wrote the "Canterbury Tales."

Goethe, at Weimar, toiling to the last,

Completed "Faust" when eighty years were past.

What then? Shall we sit idly down and say,

"The night has come; it is no longer day"?

For age is opportunity no less

Than youth itself, though in another dress.

And as the evening twilight fades away,

The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.

It is never too late to start doing what is right.

Never.

Apparently, that's by Longfellow.

Slainte!

John-Boy