- Paris Hilton

"The way I see it, you should live everyday like its your birthday"

- Robert Frost

Time and Tide wait for no man, but time always stands still for a woman of thirty.

- Mark Twain

When I was younger, I could remember anything, whether it happened or not.

- Robert Frost

A diplomat is a man who always remembers a woman's birthday but never remembers her age.

- Francois De La Rochenoucauld

Old people are fond of giving good advice; it consoles them for no longer being capable of setting a bad example.

- Cora Harvey Armstrong

Inside every older person is a younger person - wondering what the hell happened

- anonymous

Born on Monday, Fair in face; Born on Tuesday, Full of God's grace; Born on Wednesday, Sour and sad; Born on Thursday, Merry and glad; Born on Friday, Worthily given; Born on Saturday, Work hard for your living; Born on Sunday, You will never know want

- Abraham Lincoln

And in the end, it's not the years in your life that count. It's the life in your years.

- Anonymous

Time may be a great healer, but it's a lousy beautician.

- Anonymous

You would know that it’s your 60th birthday when you get to date women half your age without breaking any laws.

- William Shakespeare

To me, fair friend, you never can be old, For as you were when first your eye I eye'd, Such seems your beauty still.

- Susan B. Anthony

Sooner or later we all discover that the important moments in life are not the advertised ones, not the birthdays, the graduations, the weddings, not the great goals achieved. The real milestones are less prepossessing. They come to the door of memory unannounced, stray dogs that amble in, sniff around a bit and simply never leave. Our lives are measured by these.

- Arnold Glascow

A loyal friend laughs at your jokes when they're not so good, and sympathizes with your problems when they're not so bad.

- William Makepeace Thackery

To see a young couple loving each other is no wonder, but to see an old couple loving each other is the best sight of all.

- Jonathan Swift

STELLA'S BIRTHDAY MARCH 13, 1719 Stella this day is thirty-four, (We shan't dispute a year or more::) However, Stella, be not troubled, Although thy size and years are doubled, Since first I saw thee at sixteen, The brightest virgin on the green; So little is thy form declin'd; Made up so largely in thy mind. Oh, would it please the gods to split Thy beauty, size, and years, and wit; No age could furnish out a pair Of nymphs so graceful, wise, and fair; With half the lustre of your eyes, With half your wit, your years, and size. And then, before it grew too late, How should I beg of gentle Fate, (That either nymph might have her swain,) To split my worship too in twain

- ROBERT WILLIAM SERVICE

BIRTHDAYS Let us have birthdays every day, Because a birthday should be happy, And full of grace and good behaving. We can't have cakes and candles bright, And presents are beyond our giving, But let lt us cherish with delight The birthday way of lovely living. For I have passed three-score and ten And I can count upon my fingers The years I hope to bide with men, (Though by God's grace one often lingers.) So in the summers left to me, Because I'm blest beyond my merit, I hope with gratitude and glee To sparkle with the birthday spirit. Let me inform myself each day Who's proudmost on the natal roster; If Washington or Henry Clay, Or Eugene Field or Stephen Foster. oh lots of famous folks I'll find Who more than measure to my rating, And so thanksgivingly inclined Their birthdays I'll be celebrating. For Oh I know the cheery glow| Of Anniversary rejoicing; Let me reflect its radiance so My daily gladness I'll be voicing. And though I'm stooped and silver-haired, Let me with laughter make the hearth gay, So by the gods I may be spared Each year to hear: "Pop, Happy Birthday."

- DYLAN THOMAS

POEM ON HIS BIRTHDAY In the mustardseed sun, By full tilt river and switchback sea Where the cormorants scud, In his house on stilts high among beaks And palavers of birds This sandgrain day in the bent bay's grave He celebrates and spurns His driftwood thirty-fifth wind turned age; Herons spire and spear. Under and round him go Flounders, gulls, on their cold, dying trails, Doing what they are told, Curlews aloud in the congered waves Work at their ways to death, And the rhymer in the long tongued room, Who tolls his birthday bell, Toils towards the ambush of his wounds; Herons, steeple stemmed, bless. In the thistledown fall, He sings towards anguish; finches fly In the claw tracks of hawks On a seizing sky; small fishes glide Through wynds and shells of drowned Ship towns to pastures of otters. He In his slant, racking house And the hewn coils of his trade perceives Herons walk in their shroud, The livelong river's robe Of minnows wreathing around their prayer; And far at sea he knows, Who slaves to his crouched, eternal end Under a serpent cloud, Dolphins dive in their turnturtle dust, The rippled seals streak down To kill and their own tide daubing blood Slides good in the sleek mouth. In a cavernous, swung Wave's silence, wept white angelus knells. Thirty-five bells sing struck On skull and scar where his loves lie wrecked, Steered by the falling stars. And to-morrow weeps in a blind cage Terror will rage apart Before chains break to a hammer flame And love unbolts the dark And freely he goes lost In the unknown, famous light of great And fabulous, dear God. Dark is a way and light is a place, Heaven that never was Nor will be ever is always true, And, in that brambled void, Plenty as blackberries in the woods The dead grow for His joy. There he might wander bare With the spirits of the horseshoe bay Or the stars' seashore dead, Marrow of eagles, the roots of whales And wishbones of wild geese, With blessed, unborn God and His Ghost, And every soul His priest, Gulled and chanter in young Heaven's fold Be at cloud quaking peace, But dark is a long way. He, on the earth of the night, alone With all the living, prays, Who knows the rocketing wind will blow The bones out of the hills, And the scythed boulders bleed, and the last Rage shattered waters kick Masts and fishes to the still quick starts, Faithlessly unto Him Who is the light of old And air shaped Heaven where souls grow wild As horses in the foam: Oh, let me midlife mourn by the shrined And druid herons' vows The voyage to ruin I must run, Dawn ships clouted aground, Yet, though I cry with tumbledown tongue, Count my blessings aloud: Four elements and five Senses, and man a spirit in love Tangling through this spun slime To his nimbus bell cool kingdom come And the lost, moonshine domes, And the sea that hides his secret selves Deep in its black, base bones, Lulling of spheres in the seashell flesh, And this last blessing most, That the closer I move To death, one man through his sundered hulks, The louder the sun blooms And the tusked, ramshackling sea exults; And every wave of the way And gale I tackle, the whole world then, With more triumphant faith That ever was since the world was said, Spins its morning of praise, I hear the bouncing hills Grow larked and greener at berry brown Fall and the dew larks sing Taller this thunderclap spring, and how More spanned with angles ride The mansouled fiery islands! Oh, Holier then their eyes, And my shining men no more alone As I sail out to die.

-

A Birthday Song. To S. G. by Sidney Lanier For ever wave, for ever float and shine Before my yearning eyes, oh! dream of mine Wherein I dreamed that time was like a vine, A creeping rose, that clomb a height of dread Out of the sea of Birth, all filled with dead, Up to the brilliant cloud of Death o'erhead. This vine bore many blossoms, which were years. Their petals, red with joy, or bleached by tears, Waved to and fro i' the winds of hopes and fears. Here all men clung, each hanging by his spray. Anon, one dropped; his neighbor 'gan to pray; And so they clung and dropped and prayed, alway. But I did mark one lately-opened bloom, Wherefrom arose a visible perfume That wrapped me in a cloud of dainty gloom. And rose an odor by a spirit haunted And drew me upward with a speed enchanted, Swift floating, by wild sea or sky undaunted, Straight through the cloud of death, where men are free. I gained a height, and stayed and bent my knee. Then glowed my cloud, and broke and unveiled thee. "O flower-born and flower-souled!" I said, "Be the year-bloom that breathed thee ever red, Nor wither, yellow, down among the dead. "May all that cling to sprays of time, like me, Be sweetly wafted over sky and sea By rose-breaths shrining maidens like to thee!" Then while we sat upon the height afar Came twilight, like a lover late from war, With soft winds fluting to his evening star. And the shy stars grew bold and scattered gold, And chanting voices ancient secrets told, And an acclaim of angels earthward rolled.

- DYLAN THOMAS

POEM ON HIS BIERTHDAY In the mustardseed sun, by full tilt river and switchback sea where the cormorants scud, in his house on stilts high among beaks and palavers of birds this sandgrain day in the bent bay's grave he celebrates and spurns his driftwood thirty-fifth wind turned age; herons spire and spear. Under and round him go flounders, gulls, on their cold, dying trails, doing what they are told, curlews aloud in the congered waves work at their ways to death, and the rhymer in the long tongued room, who tolls his birthday bell, toils towards the ambush of his wounds; herons, steeple stemmed, bless. In the thistledown fall, he sings towards anguish; finches fly in the claw tracks of hawks on a seizing sky; small fishes glide through wynds and shells of drowned ship towns to pastures of otters. He in his slant, racking house and the hewn coils of his trade perceives herons walk in their shroud, The livelong river's robe of minnows wreathing around their prayer; and far at sea he knows, who slaves to his crouched, eternal end under a serpent cloud, dolphins dive in their turnturtle dust, the rippled seals streak down to kill and their own tide daubing blood slides good in the sleek mouth. In a cavernous, swung wave's silence, wept white angelus knells. thirty-five bells sing struck on skull and scar where his loves lie wrecked, steered by the falling stars. and to-morrow weeps in a blind cage terror will rage apart before chains break to a hammer flame and love unbolts the dark And freely he goes lost in the unknown, famous light of great and fabulous, dear God. dark is a way and light is a place, heaven that never was nor will be ever is always true, and, in that brambled void, plenty as blackberries in the woods the dead grow for His joy. There he might wander bare with the spirits of the horseshoe bay or the stars' seashore dead, marrow of eagles, the roots of whales and wishbones of wild geese, with blessed, unborn God and His Ghost,\ and every soul His priest, gulled and chanter in young Heaven's fold be at cloud quaking peace, But dark is a long way. he, on the earth of the night, alone with all the living, prays, who knows the rocketing wind will blow the bones out of the hills, and the scythed boulders bleed, and the last rage shattered waters kick masts and fishes to the still quick starts, faithlessly unto Him Who is the light of old and air shaped Heaven where souls grow wild as horses in the foam: oh, let me midlife mourn by the shrined and druid herons' vows the voyage to ruin I must run, dawn ships clouted aground, yet, though I cry with tumbledown tongue, count my blessings aloud: Four elements and five senses, and man a spirit in love tangling through this spun slime to his nimbus bell cool kingdom come and the lost, moonshine domes, and the sea that hides his secret selves deep in its black, base bones, lulling of spheres in the seashell flesh, and this last blessing most, That the closer I move to death, one man through his sundered hulks, the louder the sun blooms and the tusked, ramshackling sea exults; and every wave of the way and gale I tackle, the whole world then, with more triumphant faith that ever was since the world was said, spins its morning of praise, I hear the bouncing hills grow larked and greener at berry brown fall and the dew larks sing taller this thunderclap spring, and how more spanned with angles ride the mansouled fiery islands! Oh, holier then their eyes, and my shining men no more alone as I sail out to die.

- LISEL MUELLER

FOR A THIRTEENTH BIRTHDAY You have read War and Peace. Now here is Sister Carrie, not up to Tolstoy; still it will second the real world: predictable planes and levels, pavement that holds you, stairs that lift you, ice that trips you, nights that begin after sunset, four lunar phases, a finite house. I give you Dreiser although (or because) I am no longer sure. Lately I have been walking into glass doors. Through the car windows, curbs disappear. On the highway, wrong turnoffs become irresistible, someone else is controlling the wheel. Sleepless nights pile up like a police record; all my friends are getting divorced. Language, my old comrade, deserts me; words are misused or forgotten, consonants fight each other between my upper and lower teeth. I write "fiend" for "friend" and "word" for "world", remember comes out with an "m" missing. I used to be able to find my way in the dark, sure of the furniture, but the town I lived in for years has pulled up its streets in my absence, disguised its buildings behind my back. My neighbor at dinner glances at his cuffs, his palms; he has memorized certain phrases, but does not speak my language. Suddenly I am aware no one at the table does. And so I give you Dreiser, his measure of certainty: a table that's oak all the way through, real and fragrant flowers, skirts from sheep and silkworms, no unknown fibers; a language as plain as money, a workable means of exchange; a world whose very meanness is solid, mud into mortar, and you are sure of what will injure you. I give you names like nails, walls that withstand your pounding, doors that are hard to open, but once they are open, admit you into rooms that breathe pure sun. I give you trees that lose their leaves, as you knew they would, and then come green again. I give you fruit preceded by flowers, Venus supreme in the sky, the miracle of always landing on your feet, even though the earth rotates on its axis. Start out with that, at least.

- SYLVIA PLATH

A BIRTHDAY PRESENT What is this, behind this veil, is it ugly, is it beautiful? It is shimmering, has it breasts, has it edges? I am sure it is unique, I am sure it is what I want. When I am quiet at my cooking I feel it looking, I feel it thinking 'Is this the one I am too appear for, Is this the elect one, the one with black eye-pits and a scar? Measuring the flour, cutting off the surplus, Adhering to rules, to rules, to rules. Is this the one for the annunciation? My god, what a laugh!' But it shimmers, it does not stop, and I think it wants me. I would not mind if it were bones, or a pearl button. I do not want much of a present, anyway, this year. After all I am alive only by accident. I would have killed myself gladly that time any possible way. Now there are these veils, shimmering like curtains, The diaphanous satins of a January window White as babies' bedding and glittering with dead breath. O ivory! It must be a tusk there, a ghost column. Can you not see I do not mind what it is. Can you not give it to me? Do not be ashamed- I do not mind if it is small. Do not be mean, I am ready for enormity. Let us sit down to it, one on either side, admiring the gleam, The glaze, the mirrory variety of it. Let us eat our last supper at it, like a hospital plate. I know why you will not give it to me, You are terrified The world will go up in a shriek, and your head with it, Bossed, brazen, an antique shield, A marvel to your great-grandchildren. Do not be afraid, it is not so. I will only take it and go aside quietly. You will not even hear me opening it, no paper crackle, No falling ribbons, no scream at the end. I do not think you credit me with this discretion. If you only knew how the veils were killing my days. To you they are only transparencies, clear air. But my god, the clouds are like cotton. Armies of them. They are carbon monoxide. Sweetly, sweetly I breathe in, Filling my veins with invisibles, with the million Probable motes that tick the years off my life. You are silver-suited for the occasion. O adding machine- Is it impossible for you to let something go and have it go whole? Must you stamp each piece purple, Must you kill what you can? There is one thing I want today, and only you can give it to me. It stands at my window, big as the sky. It breathes from my sheets, the cold dead center Where split lives congeal and stiffen to history. Let it not come by the mail, finger by finger. Let it not come by word of mouth, I should be sixty By the time the whole of it was delivered, and to numb to use it. Only let down the veil, the veil, the veil. If it were death I would admire the deep gravity of it, its timeless eyes. I would know you were serious. There would be a nobility then, there would be a birthday. and the knife not carve, but enter pure and clean as the cry of a baby, and the universe slide from my side.

- JONATHAN SWIFT

STELLA'S BIRTHDAY Stella this day is thirty-four, (We won't dispute a year or more.) However, Stella, be not troubled, Although thy size and years are doubled, Since first I saw thee at sixteen, The brightest virgin on the green; So little is thy form declin'd; Made up so largely in thy mind. Oh, would it please the gods to split Thy beauty, size, and years, and wit; No age could furnish out a pair Of nymphs so graceful, wise, and fair; With half the lustre of your eyes, With half your wit, your years, and size. And then, before it grew too late, How should I beg of gentle Fate, That either nymph might have her swain, To split my worship too in twain

- EMILY MATTHEWS

YOUR BIRTHDAY IS A DAY OF PROMISE This is a day of promise; Of hopefulness, laughter, and cheer, For this is a day of remembering The good things that happened all year - A day for reflecting on memories Shared with friends and with family, too, Who were so much a part of the joys in your heart And the love that you felt all year through? This is a day of promise Of the beauty and warmth life can hold, And of new dreams to dream and more love to share Through a year that's about to unfold.

- NICHOLAS GORDON

HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAREST ONE Happy birthday, dearest one, Sweet child of my heart! We've become one family, Of which you are a part. And so I sing out equally To all of those who are Mine by blood or fortune blessed, No more, no less my star! We are one in love and joy, In fondness and in worth, And so as one we celebrate This day, your day of birth!

- JOANNA FUCHS

BIRTHDAY As we observe your birthday now, Your cake and gifts don't matter much. These common things aren't really you, Ribbons, paper hats and such We celebrate a person who Brings happiness to everyone, Someone who gives more than she gets, And fills our lives with joy and fun So Happy Birthday and many more! We hope you make it to a hundred and two, Because we cannot even dream What life would be like without you!

- CHRISTINA ROSSETTI