In the midst of the tempest it seems to him that tears are raining on the earth:
O then the unloosen’d ocean,
Of tears! tears! tears![1]
He feels the horror
Of the terrible doubt of appearances,
Of the uncertainty after all, that we may be deluded,
That may-be reliance and hope are but speculations after all,
That may-be identity beyond the grave is a beautiful fable only.[2]
And he asks, sadly:
Hast never come to thee an hour,
A sudden gleam divine, precipitating, bursting all these bubbles, fashions, wealth?
These eager business aims—books, politics, art, amours,
To utter nothingness?[3]
The thought of death, especially in his last years, leads him to bitter reflections:
To think how eager we are in building our houses,
To think others shall be just as eager, and we quite indifferent …
Slow-moving and black lines creep over the whole earth—they never cease—they are the burial lines,
He that was President was buried, and he that is now President shall surely be buried.[4]
What matters it? Perhaps death is but apparent:
