revels now are ended. These our actors,
I foretold you, were all spirits, and
melted into air, into thin air;
like the baseless fabric of this vision,
cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
solemn temples, the great globe itself,
all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
like this insubstantial pageant faded,
not a rack behind. We are such stuff
dreams are made on, and our little life
rounded with a sleep.
There's a storm building, a mighty tempest that will rock the foundations of the planet, leaving death and ruin in its wake. Few will remain standing once the gale has abated. This storm has been foretold for decades, but the preparations made by those who knew of its coming are pitifully inadequate.