For of all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these: 'It might have been!'
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Peace hath higher tests of manhood than battle ever knew.
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In any man who dies there dies with him, his first snow and kiss and fight... Not people die but worlds die in them.
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Ah! on Thanksgiving day, when from East and from West, From North and South, come the pilgrim and guest, When the gray-haired New Englander sees round his board The old broken links of affection restored, When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more, And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before. What moistens the lips and what brightens the eye? What calls back the past, like the rich pumpkin pie?
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Yet sometimes glimpses on my sight, Through present wrong the eternal right; And, step by step, since time began, I see the steady gain of man...
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