Life itself is but the shadow of death, and
souls departed but the shadows of the
living: All things fall under this name.
the sun itself is but the dark
simulacrum, and the light but
the shadow of God.
“Wheresoe’er I turn my view,
All is strange, yet nothing new;
Endless labour all along,
Endless labour to be wrong;
Phrase that Time has flung away,
Uncouth words in disarray:
Trickt in antique ruff and bonnet,
Ode and elegy and sonnet.”
Samuel Johnson | “Lines on Thomas Warton’s Poems”