My purpose holds to sail beyond the sunset and the baths of all the Western stars until I die. - Alfred Tennyson

Forerun thy peers, thy time, and let
Thy feet, millenniums hence, be set
In midst of knowledge, dream'd not yet.

A kind of waking trance I have frequently had, quite from boyhood, when
I have been all alone. This has generally come upon me thro’ repeating my own name two or three times to myself silently, till all at once, as it were
out of the intensity of the consciousness of individuality, the individuality
itself seemed to dissolve and fade away into boundless being, and this not a
confused state, but the clearest of the clearest, the weirdest of the weirdest,
utterly beyound words, where death was an almost laughable impossibility,
the loss of personality (if so it were) seeming no extinction but the only
true life.

Me only cruel immortality
Consumes: I wither slowly in thine arms,
Here at the quiet limit of the world,
A white-hair'd shadow roaming like a dream
The ever-silent spaces of the East,
Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn.