Strange are the pictures of the future that mankind can thus draw with this brush of faith and this… — Henry Rider Haggard

And now let us love and take that which is given us, and be happy; for in the grave there is no love and no warmth, nor any touching of the lips. Nothing perchance, or perchance bitter memories of what might have been.

Yea, all things live for ever, though at times they sleep and are forgotten.

[T]hinking can only serve to measure out the helplessness of thought.