While Franklin's quiet memory climbs to heaven, Calming the lightning which he thence hath riven, Or drawing from the no less kindled earth Freedom a… - Lord Byron

Man. I tell thee, man! I have lived many years,
Many long years, but they are nothing now
To those which I must number: ages — ages — Space and eternity — and consciousness,
With the fierce thirst of death — and still unslaked! C. Hun. Why on thy brow the seal of middle age
Hath scarce been set; I am thine elder far. 50 Man. Think’st thou existence doth depend on time?
It doth; but actions are our epochs: mine
Have made my days and nights imperishable,
Endless, and all alike, as sands on the shore,
Innumerable atoms; and one desert,
Barren and cold, on which the wild waves break,
But nothing rests, save carcasses and wrecks,
Rocks, and the salt-surf weeds of bitterness.

If I should meet thee
After long years
How should I greet thee?
With silence and tears.

Where is he, the champion and the child
Of all that's great or little, wise or wild;
Whose game was empires, and whose stakes were thrones;
Whose table earth — whose dice were human bones?