16. For the wind passeth over it, and it is gone. Only a little wind is needed, not even a scythe is demanded, for the
flower is so frail. A puff of foul air fails not to lay low the healthiest son
of man. And the place there of shall know it no more. The flower blooms
no more. It may have a successor, but as for itself its leaves are scattered,
and its perfume will never again sweeten the evening air. Man also dies and is
gone from his old haunts, his dear home, and his daily labors, never to return.
As far as this world is concerned, he is as though he had never been; all
things continue in their courses as though they missed him not, so little a
figure does he make in the affairs of nature. True, there are enduring
memories, and an existence of another kind coeval with eternity, but these belong
not to our flesh, which is but grass, but to a higher life, in which we rise to
close fellowship with the Eternal.
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