A man spends his whole life fishing in himself

for something grand. It's like some lost lunker, big enough

to break all records. But he's only heard rumors, myths,

vague promises of wonder. He's only felt the shadow

of something enormous darken his life. Or has he?

Maybe it's the shadow of other fish, greater than his,

the shadow of other men's souls passing over him.

Each day he grabs his gear and makes his way

to the ocean. At least he's sure of that: or is he? Is it the ocean

or the little puddle of his tears? Is this his dinghy

or the frayed boards of his ego, scoured by storm?

He shoves off, feeling the land fall away under his boots.

Soon he's drifting under clouds, wind whispering blandishments

in his ears. It could be today: the water heaves

and settles like a chest. . . He's not far out.

It's all so pleasant, so comforting--the sunlight,

the waves. He'll go back soon, thinking: "Maybe tonight."

Night with its concealments, its shadow masking all other shadows.

Night with its privacies, its alluringly distant stars.

I’m Nobody! Who are you?

Are you – Nobody – too?

Then there’s a pair of us!

Don’t tell! they’d advertise – you know!

How dreary – to be – Somebody!

How public – like a Frog –

To tell one’s name – the livelong June –

To an admiring Bog!

To be, or not to be: that is the question:

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,

And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;

No more; and by a sleep to say we end

The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks

That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;

To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause: there's the respect

That makes calamity of so long life;

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,

The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,

The insolence of office and the spurns

That patient merit of the unworthy takes,

When he himself might his quietus make

With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,

To grunt and sweat under a weary life,

But that the dread of something after death,

The undiscover'd country from whose bourn

No traveller returns, puzzles the will

And makes us rather bear those ills we have

Than fly to others that we know not of?

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;

And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,

And enterprises of great pith and moment

With this regard their currents turn awry,

And lose the name of action.—Soft you now!

The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons

Be all my sins remember'd.