The love of youth, the hope of better years,
The source of softest wishes, tenderest fears.
The only living thing he could not hate.
Was reft at once — and he deserv’d his fate.
But did not feel it less; the good explore.
For peace, those realms where guilt can never soar:
The proud — the wayward — who have fixed below their joy —
and find this earth enough for woe,
Lose in that one their all
– perchance a mite-
But who in patience parts with all delight ?
– Byron, ‘the Corsair’
“Let us think this thought in its most terrible form: existence as it is, without meaning or aim, yet recurring inevitably without any finale of nothingness: ‘the eternal recurrence.'”
– Nietzsche, ‘the Will To Power’