memento.ieor.berkeley.edu/links.html
... All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom.--Take the wings
Of morning--and the Barcan desert pierce,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound,
Save his own dashings--yet--the dead are there;
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep--the dead reign there alone.
So shalt thou rest--and what if thou withdraw
Unheeded by the living--and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny....
cmp1.ucr.edu/terminals/memento_mori/intro.html
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