"Nothing is here to stay Everything has to begin and end A ship in a bottle won't sail All we can do is dream that the wind will blow us across the water A ship in a bottle set sail"

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O Love! they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying! And answer, echoes, answer! dying, dying, dying.

— Alfred Lord Tennyson