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How strange and awful is the synthesis of life and death in the gusty winds and falling leaves of an autumnal day!
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Age: 61 †
Born: 1772
Born: October 21
Died: 1834
Died: July 25
Critic
Literary Critic
Philosopher
Poet
Theologian
Ottery St Mary
Devon
S. T. Coleridge
Strange
Gusty
Fall
Autumnal
Death
Synthesis
Life
Winds
Falling
Leaves
Awful
Wind
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And the Devil did grin, for his darling sin is pride that apes humility.
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And though thou notest from thy safe recess old friends burn dim, like lamps in noisome air love them for what they are nor love them less, because to thee they are not what they were.
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We ought not to extract pernicious honey from poison blossoms of misrepresentation and mendacious half-truth, to pamper the course appetite of bigotry and self-love.
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Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing, Beloved from pole to pole.
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Frenchmen are like gunpowder, each by itself smutty and contemptible, but mass them together and they are terrible indeed!
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Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, Yet she sailed softly too: Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze - On me alone it blew.
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Oh, the difficulty of fixing the attention of men on the world within them!
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Her skin was white as leprosy.
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For compassion a human heart suffices, but for full and adequate sympathy, with joy, an angel's only.
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The juggle of sophistry consists, for the most part, in using a word in one sense in all the premises, and in another sense in the conclusion.
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A man's as old as he's feeling. A woman as old as she looks.
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Rage is essentially vulgar.
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A Falsehood is, in one sense, a dead thing but too often it moves about, galvanized by self-will, and pushes the living out of their seats.
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I look'd to Heav'n, and try'd to pray But or ever a prayer had gusht, A wicked whisper came and made My heart as dry as dust.
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A stately pleasure-dome decree.
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Love is the admiration and cherishing of the amiable qualities of the beloved person, upon the condition of yourself being the object of their action.
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Poor little Foal of an oppressed race! I love the languid patience of thy face.
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The poet is the man made to solve the riddle of the universe who brings the whole soul of man into activity.
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You may depend upon it, religion is, in its essence, the most gentlemanly thing in the world. It will alone gentilize, if unmixed with cant and I know nothing else that will, alone. Certainly not the army, which is thought to be the grand embellisher of manners.
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The devil is not, indeed, perfectly humorous, but that is only because he is the extreme of all humor.
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