Mark Twain

A myriad of men are born; they labor and sweat and struggle;. . . they squabble and scold and fight; they scramble for little mean advantages over each other; age creeps upon them; infirmities follow;. . . those they love are taken from them, and the joy of life is turned to aching grief. It comes at last--the only unpoisoned gift earth ever had for them--and they vanish from a world where they were of no consequence,. . . a world which will lament them a day and forget them forever.