In the midst of the fountain of wit there arises something bitter, which stings in the very flowers.
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Anand Thakur
In the midst of the fountain of wit there arises something bitter, which stings in the very flowers.
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The old must always make way for the new, and one thing must be built out of the ruins of another. There is no murky pit of hell awaiting anyone.
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Men conceal the past scenes of their lives.
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Violence and injury enclose in their net all that do such things, and generally return upon him who began.
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Those things that are in the light we behold from darkness.
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I own with reason: for, if men but knew Some fixed end to ills, they would be strong By some device unconquered to withstand Religions and the menacings of seers.
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Nothing can be created out of nothing.
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What came from the earth returns back to the earth, and the spirit that was sent from heaven, again carried back, is received into the temple of heaven.
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For fools admire and love those things they see hidden in verses turned all upside down, and take for truth what sweetly strokes the ears and comes with sound of phrases fine imbued.
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No fact is so simple that it is not harder to believe than to doubt at the first presentation. Equally, there is nothing so mighty or so marvelous that the wonder it evokes does not tend to diminish in time.
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Thus the sum Forever is replenished, and we live As mortals by eternal give and take. The nations wax, the nations wane away; In a brief space the generations pass, And like to runners hand the lamp of life One unto other.
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From the very fountain of enchantment there arises a taste of bitterness to spread anguish amongst the flowers.
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Under what law each thing was created, and how necessary it is for it to continue under this, and how it cannot annul the strong rules that govern its lifetime.
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Fear holds dominion over mortality Only because, seeing in land and sky So much the cause whereof no wise they know, Men think Divinities are working there.
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Things stand apart so far and differ, that What’s food for one is poison for another.
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Those vestiges of natures left behind Which reason cannot quite expel from us Are still so slight that naught prevents a man From living a life even worthy of the gods.
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