When, My friend, our autumn arrives with the winter it harbors', let's reserve a thought, nor for the future spring. It's hope ? Which belongs to others, nor for the summer, whose deceased we are, but for what remains of what is passing; The present yellow that the leaves live and that makes them different...

So:
Let my fate deny me
    everything
except to see it,
    for I,
an unstrict Stoic,
which to delight in every
    letter
of the sentence engraved by
Destiny...