Friday, August 31, 2012

Apocalyptic poetry Friday

Many moons ago, I used to post the occasional poetic musings on Fridays.  I got a bit out of the habit but ran across this famous passage at Wit's End.
Prospero in William Shakespeare's The Tempest Act 4 Scene 1
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-capp'd tow'rs, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
It is often associated with the approaching end of the author's life.

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