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Comrades mine and I in the midst, and their memory ever to keep for the dead I loved so well.
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You want to know a sure way to lose money? Buy what's popular and don't know what you are investing in.
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I find letters from God dropt in the street, and every one is sign'd by God's name.
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The press of my foot to the earth springs a hundred affections.
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When one reaches out to help another he touches the face of God.
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The President eats dirt and excrement for his daily meals, likes it and tries to force it on The States.
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Once fully enslaved, no nation, state, city of this earth ever afterward resumes its liberty.
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The habit of giving only enhances the desire to give.
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At times it has been doubtful to me if Emerson really knows or feels what Poetry is at its highest, as in the Bible, for instance, or Homer or Shakspeare. I see he covertly or plainly likes best superb verbal polish, or something old or odd.
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O magnet-South! O glistening perfumed South! My South! O quick mettle, rich blood, impulse and love! Good and evil! O all dear to me!
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The best writing has no lace on its sleeves.
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The powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse.
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Why should I wish to see God better than this day? I see something of God each hour of the twenty-four, and each moment then, In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in the glass; I find letters from God dropped in the street, and every one is signed by God's name, And I leave them where they are, for I know that others will punctually come forever and ever.
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Now I see that there is no such thing as love unreturn'd. The pay is certain, one way or another.
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I discover myself on the verge of a usual mistake.
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Do you see O my brothers and sisters? It is not chaos or death, it is form, union, plan, it is eternal life, it is happiness.
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Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space.
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I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning, How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turned over upon me, And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue to my bare-stript heart, And reached till you felt my beard, and reached till you held my feet.
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Has anyone supposed it lucky to be born? I hasten to inform him or her that it is just as lucky to die, and I know it.
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Pointing to another world will never stop vice among us; shedding light over this world can alone help us.
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I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you when I sit alone or wake at night alone, I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again, I am to see to it that I do not lose you.
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When he whom I love travels with me or sits a long while holding me by the hand, … Then I am charged with untold and untellable wisdom, I am silent, I require nothing further, I cannot answer the question of appearances or that of identity beyond the grave, But I walk or sit indifferent, I am satisfied, He ahold of my hand has completely satisfied me.
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Everybody is writing, writing, writing - worst of all, writing poetry. It'd be better if the whole tribe of the scribblers - every damned one of us - were sent off somewhere with tool chests to do some honest work.
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And as to you Death, and you bitter hug of mortality, it is idle to try to alarm me.