Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care;
Time but the impression deeper makes
As streams their channels deeper wear.
—Burns.
I chatter, chatter, as I go
To join the brimming river,
For men may come, and men may go,
But I go on for ever.—Tennyson.
The sense of death is most in apprehension;
And the poor beetle that we tread upon,
In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great
As when a giant dies.—Shakespeare.
But gleans of brilliant satins, rent to rags and blotched with a dull red stain, and bits of torn embroidery and lace fluttering from corpses in the midnight breeze, proclaimed the side on which the dead hands had wielded steel; or perchance an iron cap with plated lappets to protect the cheeks, had rolled from a cross-shaped head; and the sad-coloured doublet below, with its angular severity of cut and fashion, betrayed a Puritan hatred of bright colours and flowing outlines.—Dr W. F. Collier.
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages.—Shakespeare.
Lowland trees may lean to this side and that, although it is but a meadow breeze that bends them, or a bank of cowslips from which their trunks lean aslope; but, let storm and avalanche do their worst, and let the pine find only a ledge of vertical precipice to cling to, it will nevertheless grow straight.—John Ruskin.
