Tomorrow , and tomorrow, and tomorrow
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 stuts 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!
No comments:
Post a Comment