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“Your children are no more than ‘leaves’. ‘Leaves’ too these loud voices of loyal praise, these curses from your opponents, this silent blame of mockery: mere ‘leaves’ likewise those with custody of your future fame. All these ‘come round in the season of spring’: but then the wind blows them down, and the forest ‘puts out others’ in their stead. All things are short-lived – this is their common lot – but you pursue likes and dislikes as if all was fixed for eternity. In a little while you too will close your eyes, and soon there will be others mourning the man who buries you.” — Marcus Aurelius
Your children are no more than ‘leaves’.
‘Leaves’ too these loud voices of loyal praise, these curses from your opponents, this silent blame of mockery: mere ‘leaves’ likewise those with custody of your future fame.
All these ‘come round in the season of spring’: but then the wind blows them down, and the forest ‘puts out others’ in their stead.
All things are short-lived – this is their common lot – but you pursue likes and dislikes as if all was fixed for eternity.
In a little while you too will close your eyes, and soon there will be others mourning the man who buries you.