There is no such thing as chance; and what seem to us merest accident springs from the deepest source of destiny.
Spring flies, and with it all the train it leads; and flowers, in fading, leave us but their seeds.
Most gladly would I give the blood-stained laurel for the first violet which March brings us, the fragrant pledge of the new-fledged year.
When the measured dance of the hours brings back the happy smile of spring, the buried dead is born again in the life-glance of the sun. The germs which perished to the eye within the cold breast of the earth spring up with joy in the bright realm of day.
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