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Richard Crashaw

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Where’er she lie,
Locked up from mortal eye,
In shady leaves of destiny.

 
Richard Crashaw

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Call for the robin redbreast and the wren,
Since o'er shady groves they hover,
And with leaves and flowers do cover
The friendless bodies of unburied men.

 
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O! immodest mortal! Your destiny is the joy of watching the evershifting battle!

 
Ludwig Boltzmann
 

My destiny was exceptional. Not because of false modesty but because of a wish to be accurate I note that my destiny has turned out to be larger than my personality. I've simply tried to live up to my destiny.

 
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"Leaves, some the wind scatters on the ground—So is the race of man." Leaves, also, are thy children; and leaves, too, are they who cry out so if they are worthy of credit, or bestow their praise, or on the contrary curse, or secretly blame and sneer; and leaves, in like manner, are those who shall receive and transmit a man's fame to after-times. For all such things as these "are produced in the season of spring," as the poet says; then the wind casts them down; then the forest produces other leaves in their places. But a brief existence is common to all things, and yet thou avoidest and pursuest all things as if they would be eternal.

 
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As is the generation of leaves, so is that of humanity. The wind scatters the leaves on the ground, but the live timber burgeons with leaves again in the season of spring returning. So one generation of men will grow while another dies.

 
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