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
Thursday, November 3, 2011
life
Malicious and fleeting The serpent that is life Whose fangs bereaving Leave us in solemn strife.
The venomous virulence That is first a sensible sense Is one thought more A loathsome grievance.
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