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Look upon the errors of others in sorrow, not in anger.
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
00018405207 IPI
Longfellow
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And the wind plays on those great sonorous harps, the shrouds and masts of ships.
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For next to being a great poet is the power of understanding one.
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By unseen hands uplifted in the light Of sunset, yonder solitary cloud Floats, with its white apparel blown abroad, And wafted up to heaven.
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Even He that died for us upon the cross, in the last hour, in the unutterable agony of death, was mindful of His mother, as if to teach us that this holy love should be our last worldly thought - the last point of earth from which the soul should take its flight for heaven.
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The story, from beginning to end, I found again in a heart of a friend.
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All your strength in is your union. All your danger is in discord. Therefore be at peace henceforward, And as brothers live together.
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In ourselves are triumph and defeat.
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Art is the child of Nature.
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How in the turmoil of life can love stand, Where there is not one heart, and one mouth and one hand.
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I cannot believe any man can be perfectly well in body, who has much labor of the mind to perform.
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The natural alone is permanent.
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Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought!
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But ah! what once has been shall be no more! The groaning earth in travail and in pain Brings forth its races, but does not restore, And the dead nations never rise again.
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Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining, Buds that open only to decay.
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Look not mournfully into the past, it comes not back again. Wisely improve the present, it is thine. Go forth to meet the shadowy future without fear and with a manly heart.
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Standing, with reluctant feet, Where the brook and river meet, Womanhood and childhood fleet!
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I stay a little longer, as one stays, to cover up the embers that still burn.
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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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Every author has the whole past to contend with all the centuries are upon him. He is compared with Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, Milton.
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