When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
—William Shakespeare
And he shall be like a tree
planted by the rivers of water,
that bringeth forth his fruit in his season;
his leaf also shall not wither;
and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper.
—Psalm of David
To Die
I wish to leave the world
By its natural door;
In my tomb of green leaves
They are to carry me to die.
Do not put me in the dark
To die like a traitor;
I am good, and like a good thing
I will die with my face to the sun.
—Jose Marti
What we take to be our strongest tower of delight,
only stands at the caprice of the minutest event—
the falling of a leaf, the hearing of a voice, or the receipt
of one little bit of paper scratched over with a few small
characters by a sharpened feather.
—Herman Melville
that bringeth forth his fruit in his season;
his leaf also shall not wither;
and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper.
—Psalm of David
To Die
I wish to leave the world
By its natural door;
In my tomb of green leaves
They are to carry me to die.
Do not put me in the dark
To die like a traitor;
I am good, and like a good thing
I will die with my face to the sun.
—Jose Marti
What we take to be our strongest tower of delight,
only stands at the caprice of the minutest event—
the falling of a leaf, the hearing of a voice, or the receipt
of one little bit of paper scratched over with a few small
characters by a sharpened feather.
—Herman Melville
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