To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
-The Worthily Beloved William Shakespeare
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Does the moon not bow
Does the moon not bow, does the sun not rise, to ever wipe the lonely brow above any the solemn eyes?
Has never the ocean churned, nor has a star ever burned, to kiss the cheek of the hollowed fiend that is of vacant lovers dreamed?
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