Was she old? When they lit all the candles on her birthday cake, six people were overcome with the heat.
I recently turned sixty. Practically a third of my life is over.
Happy Birthday, Johnny,
Live beyond your income,
Travel for enjoyment,
Follow your own nose.
There are three hundred and sixty-four days when you get un-birthday presents ... And only one for birthday presents, you know.
Man arrives as a novice at each age of his life.
Through a dull tract of woe, of dread,
The toiling year has pass'd and fled:
And, lo! in sad and pensive strain,
I sing my birth-day date again.
There is still no cure for the common birthday.
Good-morrow to the golden morning!
Good-morrow to the world's delight!
I've come to bless thy life's beginning,
That hath made my own so bright!
So mayst thou live, dear! many years,
In all the bliss that life endears,
Not without smiles, nor yet from tears
Too strictly kept:
When first thy infant littleness
I folded in my fond caress,
The greatest proof of happiness
Was this - I wept.
In the gradual desuetude of old observances, this custom of solemnizing our proper birth-day hath nearly passed away, or is left to children, who reflect nothing at all about the matter, nor understand any thing in it beyond cake and orange.
Maiden, when such a soul as thine is born, the morning-stars their ancient music make.
I used to anticipate my childhood birthday parties as if each were an annual coronation. Like most kids, I loved sitting at the head of the table with a crown on my head. In recent years, however, birthdays have been more like medical check-ups - no fun at all but necessary if one intends to stay alive from year to year.
My heart is like a singing bird
Whose nest is in a water'd shoot;
My heart is like an apple-tree
Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit;
My heart is like a rainbow shell
That paddles in a halcyon sea;
My heart is gladder than all these,
Because my love is come to me.
Raise me a dais of silk and down;
Hang it with vair and purple dyes;
Carve it in doves and pomegranates,
And peacocks with a hundred eyes;
Work it in gold and silver grapes,
In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys;
Because the birthday of my life
Is come, my love is come to me.
Because time itself is like a spiral, something special happens on your birthday each year: The same energy that God invested in you at birth is present once again.
For every year of life we light
A candle on your cake
To mark the simple sort of progress
Anyone can make,
And then, to test your nerve or give
A proper view of death,
You're asked to blow each light, each year,
Out with your own breath.
May you live all the days of your life.
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