What then?

His chosen comrades thought at school
He must grow a famous man;
He thought the same and lived by rule,
All his twenties crammed with toil;
`What then?' sang Plato's ghost. `What then?'
 
Everything he wrote was read,
After certain years he won
Sufficient money for his need,
Friends that have been friends indeed;
`What then?' sang Plato's ghost. `What then?'
 
All his happier dreams came true -
A small old house, wife, daughter, son,
Grounds where plum and cabbage grew,
Poets and Wits about him drew;
`What then?' sang Plato's ghost. `What then?'
 
`The work is done,' grown old he thought,
`According to my boyish plan;
Let the fools rage, I swerved in naught,
Something to perfection brought';
But louder sang that ghost, `What then?'

                                - W.B. Yeats

In melancholy moods, Plato's ghost haunts me as well.  The awareness that all our effort,

good or bad are eventually capped off by the end of our lives and the question of

did any of it bring lasting meaning to us or anyone else constantly nips at my 

thoughts.  It is the view of someone with too much time on their hands to contemplate

subjects that have no real resolution.