One thing is made of another, and nature allows no new creation except at the price of death.
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Anand Thakur
One thing is made of another, and nature allows no new creation except at the price of death.
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We plainly perceive that the mind strengthens and decays with the body.
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Gently touching with the charm of poetry.
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Thus, then, the All that is is limited In no one region of its onward paths, For then ‘tmust have forever its beyond.
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From the heart of the fountain of delight rises a jet of bitterness that tortures us among the very flowers.
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To none is life given in freehold; to all on lease.
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Constant dripping hollows out a stone.
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When bodies spring apart, because the air Somehow condenses, wander they from truth: For then a void is formed, where none before; And, too, a void is filled which was before.
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Violence and wrong enclose all who commit them in their meshes and do mostly recoil on him from whom they begin.
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In the midst of the fountain of wit there arises something bitter, which stings in the very flowers.
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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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Our life must once have end; in vain we fly From following Fate; e’en now, e’en now, we die.
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Therefore there is not anything which returns to nothing, but all things return dissolved into their elements.
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If men saw that a term was set to their troubles, they would find strength in some way to withstand the hocus-pocus and intimidations of the prophets.
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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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Such crimes has superstition caused.
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