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The leaves of memory seemed to make A mournful rustling in the dark
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Age: 75 †
Born: 1807
Born: January 1
Died: 1882
Died: March 24
Novelist
Poet
Professor
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Portland
Maine
Henry W. Longfellow
H. W. Longfellow
00018405207 IPI
Longfellow
Rustling
Mournful
Leaves
Seemed
Memory
Memories
Dark
Make
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Oh the long and dreary Winter! Oh the cold and cruel Winter!
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An angel visited the green earth, and took a flower away.
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There's not a ship that sails the ocean, But every climate, every soil, Must bring its tribute, great or small, And help to build the wooden wall!
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The day is done and slowly from the scene the stooping sun upgathers his spent shafts, and puts them back into his golden quiver!
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The country is lyric, the town dramatic. When mingled, they make the most perfect musical drama.
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Art is the child of nature in whom we trace the features of the mothers face.
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Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way But to act, that each tomorrow Find us farther than today.
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The great tragedy of the average man is that he goes to his grave with his music still in him.
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Love is the root of creation God's essence worlds without number Lie in his bosom like children he made them for this purpose only. Only to love and to be loved again.
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Sunday is the golden clasp that binds together the volume of the week.
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Be noble in every thought And in every deed!
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Shepherds at the grange, Where the Babe was born, Sang with many a change, Christmas carols until morn.
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Many a poem is marred by a superfluous verse.
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How can I teach your children gentleness and mercy to the weak, and reverence for life, which in its nakedness and excess, is still a gleam of God's omnipotence, when by your laws, your actions and your speech, you contradict the very things I teach?
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Time is the life of the soul.
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I am never indifferent, and never pretend to be, to what people say or think of my books. They are my children, and I like to have them liked.
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O holy trust! O endless sense of rest! Like the beloved John To lay his head upon the Saviour's breast, And thus to journey on!
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Will without power is like children playing at soldiers.
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The strength of criticism lies in the weakness of the thing criticized.
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Day of the Lord, as all our days should be!
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