Salomon saith, There is no new thing upon the earth. So that as Plato had an imagination, that all knowledge was but remembrance; so Salomon giveth his sentence, that all novelty is but oblivion.
Francis BaconRead
There ought to be gardens for all months in the year, in which, severally, things of beauty may be then in season.
Interpretation
Beauty can be found in every season of life when we take the time to appreciate it.
Francis Bacon suggests that just as gardens can bloom with beauty throughout the year, so too can life present us with moments of beauty in every season. This quote encourages us to seek and cherish the beauty that exists continuously, reminding us that each phase of life has its own unique offerings.
In practice
During a speech about the importance of nature in our lives.
Salomon saith, There is no new thing upon the earth. So that as Plato had an imagination, that all knowledge was but remembrance; so Salomon giveth his sentence, that all novelty is but oblivion.
Nothing doth more hurt in a state than that cunning men pass for wise.
Truth emerges more readily from error than from confusion.
Great art is always a way of concentrating, reinventing what is called fact, what we know of our existence- a reconcentration… tearing away the veils, the attitudes people acquire of their time and earlier time. Really good artists tear down those veils
Wise men make more opportunities than they find.
Knowledge and human power are synonymous.
Our Lord has written the promise of resurrection, not in books alone, but in every leaf in springtime.
Nature is always behind the age
Just as our forefathers saved and invested to build what we, the current generation, are enjoying today, so, too, we must plant trees so that our sons and daughters, and their sons and daughters, can enjoy the shade.
No prosaic description can portray the grandeur of 40 miles of rugged mountains rising beyond a placid lake in which each shadowy precipice and each purple gorge is reflected with a vividness that rivals the original.
A little child paddles a little boat, Drifting about, and picking white lotuses. He does not know how to hide his tracks, And duckweed's opened up along his path.
Morning drew on apace. The air became more sharp and piercing, as its first dull hue: the death of night, rather than the birth of day: glimmered faintly in the sky. The objects which had looked dim and terrible in the darkness, grew more and more defined, and gradually resolved into their familiar shapes. The rain came down, thick and fast; and pattered, noisily, among the leafless bushes.
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