From the Bookshelf of The Dusty Bookshelf…

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow‏,‏
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day‎‏,‏
To the last syllable of recorded time‏;‏
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle‏!‏
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player‏,‏
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage‏,‏
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury‏,‏
Signifying nothing‏