How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,
Stol’n on his wing my three and twentieth year!
My hasting days fly on with full career,
But my late spring no bud or blossom shew’th.
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth
That I to manhood am arrived so near;
And inward ripeness doth much less appear,
That some more timely-happy spirits endu’th.
Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,
It shall be still in strictest measure ev’n
To that same lot, however mean or high,
Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heav’n:
  All is, if I have grace to use it so,
  As ever in my great Task-Master’s eye.

John Milton is said to have composed this sonnet on his twenty-fourth birthday, and his thoughts (including, but not limited to, the criticism of the achievements so far) are very much in line with mine on my very own 24th birthday. One wonders what is the programming equivalent of “Paradise Lost.”