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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.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Age: 75 †
Born: 1807
Born: January 1
Died: 1882
Died: March 24
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Portland
Maine
Henry W. Longfellow
H. W. Longfellow
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We are all architects of faith, ever living in these walls of time.
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God is not dead nor doth He sleep ... The wrong shall fail, The right prevail, With peace on earth, good will to men.
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Something the heart must have to cherish, Must love and joy and sorrow learn Something with passion clasp, or perish And in itself to ashes burn.
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God sifted a whole nation that he might send choice grain over into this wilderness.
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Be noble in every thought And in every deed!
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As the heart is, so is love to the heart. It partakes of its strength or weakness, its health or disease.
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Nature is a revelation of God Art a revelation of man.
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Fair words gladden so many a heart.
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A town that boasts inhabitants like me Can have no lack of good society.
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When we walk towards the sun of Truth, all shadows are cast behind us.
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He looks the whole world in the face for he owes not any man.
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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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Even cities have their graves!
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It is the heart and not the brain, That to the highest doth attain.
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I feel a kind of reverence for the first books of young authors. There is so much aspiration in them, so much audacious hope and trembling fear, so much of the heart's history, that all errors and shortcomings are for a while lost sight of in the amiable self assertion of youth.
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Winter giveth the fields, and the trees so old, their beards of icicles and snow.
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Art is long, and time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.
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The hearts of some women tremble like leaves at every breath of love which reaches them, and they are still again. Others, like the ocean, are moved only by the breath of a storm, and not so easily lulled to rest.
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In ourselves are triumph and defeat.
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It is difficult to know at what moment love begins it is less difficult to know that it has begun.
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