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The Clouds that gather round the setting sun 
Do take a sober colouring from an eye 
That hath kept watch o’er man’s mortality; 
Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 
Thanks to the human heart by which we live, 
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, 
To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 

William Wordsworth
ode intimations of immortality (1807)

There is “existence” in “eternity”.