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Mercy more becomes a magistrate than the vindictive wrath which men call justice.
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
Vindictive
Magistrates
Wrath
Mercy
Becomes
Justice
Call
Men
Magistrate
More quotes by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Balder the Beautiful Is dead, is dead!
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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.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Age is opportunity no less than youth itself.
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In the long, sleepless watches of the night, A gentle face the face of one long dead Looks at me from the wall, where round its head The night-lamp casts a halo of pale light.
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Softly the evening came. The sun from the western horizon Like a magician extended his golden want o'er the landscape Trinkling vapors arose and sky and water and forest Seemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and mingled together.
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The true poet is a friendly man. He takes to his arms even cold and inanimate things, and rejoices in his heart.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Who dares To say that he alone has found the truth?
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Youth comes but once a life time. Perhaps, but it remains strong in many for their entire lives.
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Only a look and a voice then darkness again and silence.
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How like they are to human things!
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Listen my children and you shall hear, Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere
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For 'tis sweet to stammer one letter Of the Eternal's language - on earth it is called Forgiveness!
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Ah, Nothing is too late, till the tired heart shall cease to palpitate.
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My own thoughts Are my companions.
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When thou are not pleased, beloved, Then my heart is sad and darkened, As the shining river darkens When the clouds drop shadows on it! When thou smilest, my beloved, Then my troubled heart is brightened, As in sunshine gleam the ripples That the cold wind makes in rivers.
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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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To say the least, a town life makes one more tolerant and liberal in one's judgment of others.
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Ah, to build, to build! That is the noblest art of all the arts. Painting and sculpture are but images, Are merely shadows cast by outward things On stone or canvas, having in themselves No separate existence. Architecture, Existing in itself, and not in seeming A something it is not, surpasses them As substance shadow.
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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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Hope has as many lives as a cat or a king.
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