We turn not older with years but newer every day. - Emily Dickinson

Harm is one of those things that I always mean to keep clear of, but somehow my intentions and me don't chime as they ought, and people will get hit with stones that I throw at my neighbor's dogs...

And so, as kinsmen met a-night,
We talked between the rooms,
Until the moss had reached our lips,
And covered up our names.

I reason, earth is short, And anguish absolute. And many hurt; But what of that? I reason, we could die: The best vitality Cannot excel decay; But what of that? I reason that in heaven Somehow, it will be even, Some new equation given; But what of that?