This insubstantial Pageant

…from the quills of the dead white poets

 William Shakespeare (1564 – 1616)

 Our revels now are ended. These our actors,

As foretold you, were all spirits and

Are melted into air, into thin air:

And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,

The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,

The solemn temples, the great globe itself,

Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve

And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,

Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff

As dreams are made on, and our little life

Is rounded with a sleep.

About Avadoro Worden

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