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Ah, Nothing is too late, till the tired heart shall cease to palpitate.
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
Translator
Writer
Portland
Maine
Henry W. Longfellow
H. W. Longfellow
00018405207 IPI
Longfellow
Late
Shall
Nothing
Heart
Till
Cease
Tired
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The rapture of pursuing is the prize the vanquished gain.
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Thought takes man out of servitude, into freedom.
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It was the schooner Hesperus, That sailed the wintry sea.
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Ah, the souls of those that die Are but sunbeams lifted higher.
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For bells are the voice of the church They have tones that touch and search The hearts of young and old.
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A coquette is a young lady of more beauty than sense, more accomplishments than learning, more charms not person than graces of mind, more admirers than friends, mole fools than wise men for attendants.
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I have you fast in my fortress, And will not let you depart, But put you down into the dungeon, In the round-tower of my heart, And there will I keep you forever, Yes, forever and a day, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, And moulder in the dust away!
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To be strong is to be happy!
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All that is best in the great poets of all countries is not what is national in them, but what is universal.
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In the elder days of art Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part, For the Gods are everywhere
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Let us then be up and doing, With a heart for any fate, Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait.
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All are architects of Fate, Working in these walls of Time Some with massive deeds and great, Some with ornaments of rhyme.
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I love an author the more for having been himself a lover of books.
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The talent of success is nothing more than doing what you can do, well.
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Love is sunshine, hate is shadow, Life is checkered shade and sunshine.
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Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.
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Method is more important than strength, when you wish to control your enemies. By dropping golden beads near a snake, a crow once managed To have a passer-by kill the snake for the beads.
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Some critics are like chimney-sweepers they put out the fire below, and frighten the swallows from their nests above they scrape a long time in the chimney, cover themselves with soot, and bring nothing away but a bag of cinders, and then sing from the top of the house as if they had built it.
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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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Not chance of birth or place has made us friends, Being oftentimes of different tongues and nations, But the endeavor for the selfsame ends, With the same hopes, and fears, and aspirations.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow