Yet I strode on austere; No hope could have no fear. — James Thomson

For life is but a dream whose shapes return,

Some frequently, some seldom, some by night

And some by day.

The City is of Night; perchance of Death,

But certainly of Night; for never there

Can come the lucid morning's fragrant breath

After the dewy dawning's cold grey air.

The world rolls round for ever like a mill;

It grinds out death and life and good and ill;

It has no purpose, heart or mind or will.