Tell me not, in mournful numbers,Life is but an empty dreamFor the soul is dead that slumbers,and things are not what they seem.Life is real Life is earnestAnd the grave is not its goalDust thou art to dust returnest,Was not spoken of the soul.
It is an illusion that youth is happy, an illusion of those who have lost it.
The love of learning, the sequestered nooks, And all the sweet serenity of books.
To be seventy years old is like climbing the Alps. You reach a snow-crowned summit, and see behind you the deep valley stretching miles and miles away, and before you other summits higher and whiter, which you may have strength to climb, or may not. Then you sit down and meditate and wonder which it will be.
The holiest of holidays are those Kept by ourselves in silence and apart The secret anniversaries of the heart.
Talk not of wasted affection affection never was wasted.
Sometimes we may learn more from a man's errors, than from his virtues.
Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.
Life is real Life is earnest And the grave is not its goal Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.
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