"Spring is past,
Summer is gone,
Winter is here,
and my song that I was meant to sing is still unsung.
I have spent my days stringing and unstringing my instrument"
The other poem, whose author is unknown to me, describes the same regret at not having already accomplished the many things I intended to do, but haven’t yet done:
Just Do it
In youth, because I could not be a singer, I did not even try to write a song; I set no little trees along the roadside, because I knew their growth would take so long. But now from the wisdom that the years have brought me, I know that it may be a blessed thing to plant a tree for someone else to water, Or make a song for someone else to sing"