It sweeps this pretty place. A day, today,
to last, must not. Syllables record time.
Our yesterdays fall when the light's a mute.
The way's dusty but death's brief, its candle out.
More fun with the Bard's words, this time it's the Scottish Play:
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!