while memory holds a seat
in this distracted globe
weeds take over flowers
canker
the canker galls the infants of the spring,
too oft before their buttons be disclosed
but I have that within which passeth show
impious
we are such stuff
as dreams are made on, and our little life
is rounded with a sleep
my words fly up, my thoughts remain below:
words without thoughts never to heaven go
jumping o'er times,
turning the accomplishment of many years
into an hour-glass
i 'gin to be aweary of the sun and wish the estate o' the world were now
she should have died hereafter;
there would have been a time for such a word.
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