Drowning men, it is said, cling to wisps of straw.
Someone has a great fire in his soul and nobody ever comes to warm themselves at it, and passers-by see nothing but a little smoke at the top of the chimney and then go on their way.
How Time doth lash us with sharp pains, Set loose our teeth, snatch wisps of hair, dim eyes -- And finally bend our backs toward earth To find the fittest place for burial.
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