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Every man has a paradise around him till he sins, and the angel of an accusing conscience drives him from his Eden.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Age: 75 †
Born: 1807
Born: January 1
Died: 1882
Died: March 24
Novelist
Poet
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Portland
Maine
Henry W. Longfellow
H. W. Longfellow
00018405207 IPI
Longfellow
Every
Drives
Men
Sins
Paradise
Till
Angel
Conscience
Sin
Accusing
Around
Eden
More quotes by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The world loves a spice of wickedness.
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But oftentimes celestial benedictions Assume this dark disguise.
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Death is better than disease.
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Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering vapors Veiled the light of his face, like the Prophet descending from Sinai.
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Love contending with friendship, and self with each generous impulse. To and fro in his breast his thoughts were heaving and dashing, As in a foundering ship.
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Thinking the deed, and not the creed, Would help us in our utmost need.
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What seems to us but dim funeral tapers may be heaven's distant lamps.
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White swan of cities slumbering in thy nest . . . White phantom city, whose untrodden streets Are rivers, and whose pavements are the shifting Shadows of the palaces and strips of sky.
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Give what you have. To some one, it may be better than you dare to think.
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Whoever benefits his enemy with straightforward intention that man's enemies will soon fold their hands in devotion.
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Death is the chillness that precedes the dawn We shudder for a moment, then awake In the broad sunshine of the other life.
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And in the wreck of noble lives Something immortal still survives.
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Don't cross the bridge til you come to it.
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This will be a great day in our history the date of a New Revolution - quite as much needed as the old one. Even now as I write they are leading old John Brown to execution in Virginia for attempting to rescue slaves! This is sowing the wind to reap the whirlwind which will come soon!
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Silence is a great peacemaker.
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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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So Nature deals with us, and takes away Our playthings one by one, and by the hand Leads us to rest.
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A handful of red sand from the hot clime Of Arab deserts brought, Within this glass becomes the spy of Time, The minister of Thought.
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One, if by land, and two, if by sea And I on the opposite shore will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm For the country folk to be up and to arm.
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