From Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman.

Hast never come to thee an hour,
A sudden gleam divine, precipitating, bursting all these bubbles, fashions, wealth?
These eager business aims — books, politics, art, amours,
To utter nothingness?
Y'know, if you log in, you can write something here, or contact authors directly on the site. Create a New User if you don't already have an account.