All sorts of reflections of this nature pass through my mind. For, as I grow older, I regret to say, the detestable habit of thinking seems to be getting ahold of me.
In the morning the children would be fatherless, the mothers widows, and men cold and stiff. Only the old moon would shine on serenely, the night wind would stir the grasses, and the wide earth would take its rest even as it did eons before we were and will do eons after we have been forgotten.
Yet, man dies not whilst the world, at once his mother and his monument, remains; his name is lost, indeed, but the breath he breathed still stirs the pine tops on the mountains. The sound of the words he spoke yet echoes on through space. The thoughts his brain gave birth to we have inherited today. His passions are our cause of life, the joys and sorrows that he knew are our familiar friends. The end from which he fled aghast will surely over take us also.
Truly the universe is full of ghosts, not sheeted churchyard specters, but the inextinguishable elements of individual life, which having been can never die, though they blend and change and change again forever.
All sorts of reflections of this nature pass through my mind. For, as I grow older, I regret to say, the detestable habit of thinking seems to be getting ahold of me.
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