It was a very happy time, but like all happy times it had no landmarks.

All those whom history calls great
Left only empty names for us to venerate.

While we have footprints on the sands of time, there is no trace of things yet to come.

Death in itself is nothing; but we fear
To be we know not what, we know not where.

We are nothing in this life.

No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us
All earth forgot, and all heaven around us.

We find no vestige of a beginning - no prospect of an end.

A life whose beginning we do not remember, and whose end we do not know.

We have nothing to live but life itself.

There is no plan, no future laid out for any of us beyond what we make for ourselves.

When we were born
we were blank pieces of paper;
nothing had been written yet.

We thought nothing of running right ahead ten or a dozen miles before turning back; for we knew nothing about taking time by the sun, and none of us had a watch in those days.

Nothing proves that we are more than nothing.

Nothing that we love over-much
Is ponderable to our touch.