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Soul meets soul on lovers’ lips.
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War is the statesman’s game, the priest’s delight, the lawyer’s jest, the hired assassin’s trade.
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Man has no right to kill his brother. It is no excuse that he does so in uniform: he only adds the infamy of servitude to the crime of murder.
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Obscenity, which is ever blasphemy against the divine beauty in life, is a monster for which the corruption of society forever brings forth new food, which it devours in secret.
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Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
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We look before and after, And pine for what is not Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
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Twin-sister of Religion, Selfishness.
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Poetry is a sword of lightning, ever unsheathed, which consumes the scabbard that would contain it.
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Poetry is the record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds.
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Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar.
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Poetry is a mirror which makes beautiful that which is distorted.
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Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world.
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Change is certain. Peace is followed by disturbances departure of evil men by their return. Such recurrences should not constitute occasions for sadness but realities for awareness, so that one may be happy in the interim.
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Only nature knows how to justly proportion to the fault the punishment it deserves.
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Music, when soft voices die Vibrates in the memory.
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Is it not odd that the only generous person I ever knew, who had money to be generous with, should be a stockbroker.
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Change is certain. Peace is followed by disturbances departure of evil men by their return. Such recurrences should not constitute occasions for sadness but realities for awareness, so that one may be happy in the interim.
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Poetry is the record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds.
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Obscenity, which is ever blasphemy against the divine beauty in life, is a monster for which the corruption of society forever brings forth new food, which it devours in secret.
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Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar.