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You yourself never loved; you never love! Yes, I too can love; you yourselves can tell it from the past. Is it not so?
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A brave man's hand can speak for itself, it does not even need a woman's love to hear its music.
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Ordinary men, to whom all things are possible, don't often, if ever, think of Heaven. It is a name, and nothing more, and they are content to wait and let things be, but to those who are doomed to be shut out for ever you cannot think what it means, you cannot guess or measure the terrible endless longing to see the gates opened, and to be able to join the white figures within.
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Listen to them, the children of the night. What music they make!
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We are able to learn from a failure, but perhaps not much from a success!
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We learn of great things by little experiences.
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Once again...welcome to my house. Come freely. Go safely; and leave something of the happiness you bring.
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Never did tombs look so ghastly white. Never did cypress, or yew, or juniper so seem the embodiment of funeral gloom. Never did tree or grass wave or rustle so ominously. Never did bough creak so mysteriously, and never did the far-away howling of dogs send such a woeful presage through the night.