Celebration and mourning (of all that's gone or yet to come)

(because it's nice to feel sad when you're happy)

"And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea." (T. S. Elliott)

I'd like to meet J. Alfred Prufrock.

Painting by Chagall. The Fiddler.