The wailing of the newborn infant is mingled with the dirge for the dead.
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Anand Thakur
The wailing of the newborn infant is mingled with the dirge for the dead.
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Gently touching with the charm of poetry.
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From the heart of this fountain of delights wells up some bitter taste to choke them even amid the flowers.
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Nature repairs one thing from another and allows nothing to be born without the aid of another’s death.
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Those things that are in the light we behold from darkness.
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A falling drop at last will carve a stone.
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Tears for the mourners who are left behind Peace everlasting for the quiet dead.
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One Man’s food is another Man’s Poison
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No single thing abides; but all things flow. Fragment to fragment clings – the things thus grow Until we know them and name them. By degrees They melt, and are no more the things we know.
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Mother of Aeneas, pleasure of men and gods.
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There is so much wrong with the world.
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For out of doubt In these affairs ’tis each man’s will itself That gives the start, and hence throughout our limbs Incipient motions are diffused.
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So, little by little, time brings out each several thing into view, and reason raises it up into the shores of light.
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Nature allows Destruction nor collapse of aught, until Some outward force may shatter by a blow, Or inward craft, entering its hollow cells, Dissolve it down.
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The highest summits and those elevated above the level of other things are mostly blasted by envy as by a thunderbolt.
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We, peopling the void air, make gods to whom we impute the ills we ought to bear.
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