But words are things, and a small drop of ink,      
Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think;      
’T is strange, the shortest letter which man uses
Instead of speech, may form a lasting link      
Of ages; to what straits old Time reduces
Frail man, when paper — even a rag like this,
Survives himself, his tomb, and all that’s his.

Author: Lord Byron