Habit rules the unreflecting herd.

No motion has she now, no force; she neither hears nor sees; rolled around in earth's diurnal course, with rocks, and stones, and trees.

But an old age serene and bright, and lovely as a Lapland night, shall lead thee to thy grave.

We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.

That blessed mood in which the burthen of the mystery, in which the heavy and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world is lightened.

Free as a bird to settle where I will.

Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.