It appears to me impossible that I should cease to exist, or that this active, restless spirit, equally alive to joy and sorrow, should only be organised dust — ready to fly abroad the moment the spring snaps, or the spark goes out which kept it together. Surely something resides in this heart that is not perishable, and life is more than a dream.
As far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light in the darkness of mere being.
We are such stuff As dreams are made on; and our little life Is rounded with a sleep.