The path of sorrow, and that path alone, Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown. - William Cowper

My fugitive years are all hasting away,
And I must ere long lie as lowly as they,
With a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head,
Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.
'Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can,
To muse on the perishing pleasures of man;
Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments I see,
Have a being less durable even than he.

How fleet is a glance of the mind! Compared with the speed of its flight The tempest itself lags behind, And the swift-winged arrows of light.

Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much. Wisdom is humble that he knows not more.