Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I 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,
Ye 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.
-from The Tempest
...as inspired by research for a paper I'm writing on Robert Hayden's poem Middle Passage, which all the critcal reviews say alludes to The Tempest, but really I haven't figured that one out yet. But "this insubstantial pageant"? That's just awesome.
