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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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And as she looked around, she saw how Death the consoler,
Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever.
--
Part II, section 5

 
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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Without comprehension, the immigrant would forever remain shut—a stranger in America. Until America can release the heart as well as train the hand of the immigrant, he would forever remain driven back upon himself, corroded by the very richness of the unused gifts within his soul.

 
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Death is for a long time. Those of shallow thought say that it is forever. There is, at least, a long night of it. There is the forgetfulness and the loss of identity. The spirit, even as the body, is unstrung and burst and scattered. One goes down to death, and it leaves a mark on one forever.

 
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