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Life is the jailer, death the angel sent to draw the unwilling bolts and set us free.
James Russell Lowell
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James Russell Lowell
Age: 72 †
Born: 1819
Born: February 22
Died: 1891
Died: August 12
Diplomat
Essayist
Journalist
Literary Critic
Poet
Writer
Cambridge
Massachusetts
Sent
Draw
Draws
Angel
Dying
Free
Jailer
Death
Bolts
Life
Unwilling
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The green grass floweth like a stream Into the oceans's blue.
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They are slaves who fear to speak, for the fallen and the weak.
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Over our manhood bend the skies Against our fallen and traitor lives The great winds utter prophecies With our faint hearts the mountain strives, Its arms outstretched, the druid wood Waits with its benedicite And to our ages drowsy blood Still shouts the inspiring sea.
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Fools, when their roof-tree falls, think it doomsday.
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Winds wanders, and dews drip earthward Rains fall, suns rise and set Earth whirls, and all but to prosper A poor little violet.
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Ah, in this world, where every guiding thread Ends suddenly in the one sure centre, death, The visionary hand of Might-have-been Alone can fill Desire's cup to the brim!
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The question of common sense is always: 'what is it good for?' - a question which would abolish the rose and be answered triumphantly by the cabbage.
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It is not without reason that fame is awarded only after death. The cloud-dust of notoriety which follows and envelops the men who drive with the wind bewilders contemporary judgment.
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Truth is quite beyond the reach of satire. There is so brave a simplicity in her that she can no more be made ridiculous than an oak or a pine.
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Light is the symbol of truth.
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A man is old when he can pass an apple orchard and not remember the stomachache.
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Evil springs up, and flowers, and bears no seed, And feeds the green earth with its swift decay, Leaving it richer for the growth of truth.
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Slow are the steps of freedom, but her feet turn never backward.
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And what they dare to dream of, date to do.
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New occasions teach new duties, time makes ancient good uncouth They must upward still and onward, who would keep abreast of truth.
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In the storm, like a prophet o'ermaddened, Thou singest and tossest thy branches Thy heart with the terror is gladdened, Thou forebodest the dread avalanches.... In the calm thou o'erstretchest the valleys With thine arms, as if blessings imploring, Like an old king led forth from his palace, When his people to battle are pouring.
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Be He nowhere else, God is in all that liberates and lifts, in all that humbles, sweetens, and consoles.
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Nature, they say, doth dote, And cannot make a man Save on some worn-out plan, Repeating us by rote.
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Endurance is the crowning quality.
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A great part of human suffering has its root in the nature of man, and not in that of his institutions.
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