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It is ever thus that the things which we do wrong - although they may seem little at the time, and though from the hardness of our hearts we pass them lightly by - come back to us with bitterness.
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Listen to them, the children of the night. What music they make!
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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.
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We learn of great things by little experiences.
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We are able to learn from a failure, but perhaps not much from a success!
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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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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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Once again...welcome to my house. Come freely. Go safely; and leave something of the happiness you bring.