My Son take this backpack for this path is never ending,
And I grow weak and tired.
In it you will find all my hopes and dreams,
I could not use them for myself.

Over there is an old brush harbor,
I'll rest there for a moment.
If I not soon rejoin,
We'll meet at some larger way.

There we will once again,
Laugh at the chasing squirrels.
Marvel at blue skies,
Sparkling rivers and lakes.

If rain, thunder and lighting fright,
Maybe little hands you will hold,
Like I did so many years ago.

Till then Carrie these,
All my hopes and dreams.

Who is Silvia? What is she?
  That all our swains commend her?
Holy, fair, and wise is she;
  The heaven such grace did lend her,
That she might admirèd be.

Is she kind as she is fair?
  For beauty lives with kindness:
Love doth to her eyes repair,
  To help him of his blindness;
And, being help’d, inhabits there.

Then to Silvia let us sing,
  That Silvia is excelling;
She excels each mortal thing
  Upon the dull earth dwelling:
To her let us garlands bring.

When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty’s field,
Thy youth’s proud livery so gazed on now,
Will be a tattered **** of small worth held.
Then being asked, where all thy beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy ***** days,
To say within thine own deep sunken eyes,
Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.
How much more praise deserved thy beauty’s use,
If thou couldst answer, “This fair child of mine
Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse,”
Proving his beauty by succession thine.
    This were to be new made when thou art old,
    And see thy blood warm when thou feel’st it cold.