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Cruel with guilt, and daring with despair, The midnight murderer bursts the faithless bar Invades the sacred hour of silent rest And leaves, unseen, a dagger in your breast.
Samuel Johnson
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And Spring arose on the garden fair, Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere And each flower and herb on Earth's dark breast Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.
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All religions are cruel, all founded on blood; for all rest principally on the idea of sacrifice - that is, on the perpetual immolation of humanity to the insatiable vengeance of divinity.
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Coldly, sadly descends The autumn evening. The Field Strewn with its dank yellow drifts Of wither'd leaves, and the elms, Fade into dimness apace, Silent;-hardly a shout From a few boys late at their play!
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Every hand and every hour should be devoted to rescue the world from its insanity of guilt, and to assuage the pangs of human hearts with balm and anodyne. To pity distress is but human; to relieve it is Godlike.
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The sword outwears its sheath, and the soul wears out the breast. And the heart must pause to breathe, and love itself have rest.
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