All that tread

The globe are but a handful to the tribes

That slumber in its bosom.

William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878): Thanatopsis.

Oh could I fly, I 'd fly with thee!

We 'd make with joyful wing

Our annual visit o'er the globe,

Companions of the spring.

John Logan (1748-1788): To the Cuckoo.

While memory holds a seat

In this distracted globe. Remember thee!

Yea, from the table of my memory

I 'll wipe away all trivial fond records.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Hamlet. Act i. Sc. 5.

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,

As I foretold you, were all spirits, and

Are melted into air, into thin air:

And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,

The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,

The solemn temples, the great globe itself,

Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,

And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,

Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff

As dreams are made on; and our little life

Is rounded with a sleep.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): The Tempest. Act iv. Sc. 1.

His home! the Western giant smiles,

And twirls the spotty globe to find it;

This little speck, the British Isles?

'T is but a freckle,—never mind it.

Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809-1894): A Good Time going.