Yet all experience is an arch where through
gleams that untravelled world,
whose margin fades for ever and for ever
when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breathe were life.
Life piled on life were all too little, and of one to me little remains.
From Ulysses by Alfred Lord Tennyson