The day is no more, the shadow is upon the earth. It is time that I go to the stream to fill my pitcher.
The evening air is eager with the sad music of the water. Ah, it calls me out into the dusk.
In the lonely lane there is no passer-by, the wind is up, the ripples are rampant in the river.
I know not if I shall come back home. I know not whom I shall chance to meet.
There at the fording in the little boat the unknown man plays upon his lute.
– Gitanjali by Tagore
Our revels now are ended: these our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits, and are melted into air, into thin air;
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, the solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherits, shall dissolve, And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind: we are such stuff as dreams are made of, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
– William Shakespeare, from Tempest.
