If all this be true, how can it be
That when this machine is destroyed as we see,
That these results can obtain thus set free.
When the grey matter of the brain is back in dust,
Into its original atoms rudely thrust.
Unless it be that life itself is a thing apart,
And the brain, nerves and throbbing heart,
Are but the instruments through which it plays,
And when this body in which it now stays,
With all of its parts, is dead and gone,