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O white-robed Angel, guide my timorous hand to write as on a lofty rock with iron pen the words of truth, that all who pass may read.
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What is a wife and what is a harlot? What is a church and what is a theatre? are they two and not one? Can they exist separate? Are not religion and politics the same thing? Brotherhood is religion. O demonstrations of reason dividing families in cruelty and pride!
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Can I see a falling tear, And not feel my sorrow's share?
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A musician, an artist, an architect: the man or woman who is not one of these is not a Christian.
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And did those feet in ancient time Walk upon England's mountains green? And was the holy Lamb of God On England's pleasant pastures seen?
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Energy is an eternal delight.
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I was in a Printing-house in Hell, and saw the method in which knowledge is transmitted from generation to generation.
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Where others see but the dawn coming over the hill, I see the soul of God shouting for joy.
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To some people a tree is something so incredibly beautiful that it brings tears to the eyes. To others it is just a green thing that stands in the way.
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Such, such were the joys When we all, girls and boys, In our youth time were seen On the Echoing Green.
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Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.
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As a man is, so he sees. As the eye is formed, such are its powers.
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Pride is a personal commitment. It is an attitude which separates excellence from mediocrity.
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To Mercy, Pity, Peace and Love All pray in their distress, And to these virtues of delight Return their thankfulness.
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If a thing loves, it is infinite.
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Improvement makes strait roads, but the crooked roads without Improvement, are roads of Genius.
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To the eyes of the man of imagination, nature is imagination itself.
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Knowledge of ideal beauty is not to be acquired. It is born with us. Innate ideas are in every man, born with him; theyare truly himself.
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Mere enthusiasm is the all in all.
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Painters are noted for being dissipated and wild.
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She who dwells with me whom I have loved with such communion, that no place on earth can ever be solitude to me.
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Nature in darkness groans and men are bound to sullen contemplation in the night: restless they turn on beds of sorrow; in their inmost brain feeling the crushing wheels, they rise, they write the bitter words of stern philosophy and knead the bread of knowledge with tears and groans.
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Art is the tree of life. Science is the tree of death.
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The Sick Rose O Rose, thou art sick. The invisible worm That flies in the night In the howling storm Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy, And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy.