We are all the fools of time and terror: Days Steal on us and steal from us; yet we live, Loathing our life, and dreading still to die. - Lord Byron

The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before;
The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need
Of aid from them — She was the Universe.

And fourthly, what need hardly be said twice,
That good but rarely came from good advice.

Even gods must yield — religions take their turn:
’Twas Jove’s — ’tis Mahomet’s — and other creeds
Will rise with other years, till man shall learn
Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds;
Poor child of Doubt and Death, whose hope is built on reeds.