There was a woman and a man with children very grand,
Who lived a life of ease, I hereby say,
But the woman and the man passed away, shifting sands,
Now their children hardly speak or see each other any day,
What is wrong with them, you ask, have they not yet grasped,
The why and wherefore we are here on earth, the way,
We should offer love and kind and always bear in mind,
We are treading on the soil for but short a stay.
Earth flight is so fleeting
NOTHING LASTS FOREVER EXCEPT THE SOUL
We are all “ghosts” or spirits driving “meat coated skeletons made from stardust,” and we don’t have anything to be afraid of. Our soul takes residence, for a brief and sacred time, in our fragile human body. It does this to learn, to grow, and will—like a hermit crab—discard old shells as they become too limiting and move on to new ones, to new lives that allow further growth.
This continues on until we become wise enough not to need our corporeal lives any longer. At that point, all the skulls and all the bodies that we had fall away into meaningless matter and what remains is what was always there: our immutable self.
The pale, the cold, and the moony smile
Which the meteor beam of a starless night
Sheds on a lonely and sea-girt isle,
Ere the dawning of morn’s undoubted light,
Is the flame of life so fickle and wan
That flits round our steps till their strength is gone.
O man! hold thee on in courage of soul
Through the stormy shades of thy worldly way,
And the billows of cloud that around thee roll
Shall sleep in the light of a wondrous day,
Where Hell and Heaven shall leave thee free
To the universe of destiny.
This world is the nurse of all we know,
This world is the mother of all we feel,
And the coming of death is a fearful blow
To a brain unencompassed with nerves of steel;
When all that we know, or feel, or see,
Shall pass like an unreal mystery.
The secret things of the grave are there,
Where all but this frame must surely be,
Though the fine-wrought eye and the wondrous ear
No longer will live to hear or to see
All that is great and all that is strange
In the boundless realm of unending change.
Who telleth a tale of unspeaking death?
Who lifteth the veil of what is to come?
Who painteth the shadows that are beneath
The wide-winding caves of the peopled tomb?
Or uniteth the hopes of what shall be
With the fears and the love for that which we see?
By Percy Bysshe Shelley