We are the hollow men
  We are the stuffed men
  Leaning together
  Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
  Our dried voices, when
  We whisper together
  Are quiet and meaningless
  As wind in dry grass
  Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
Shape without form, shade without colour,
  Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
Those who have crossed
  With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
  Remember us—if at all—not as lost
  Violent souls, but only
  As the hollow men
  The stuffed men.
[...]
This is the way the world ends
  Not with a bang but a whimper.
  
  - Thomas Eliot, The Hollow Men | 1925

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