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Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real, life is earnest, And the grave is not its goal, Dust you are, to dust returnest, Was not said about the soul. Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sand of time. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow |
Children in a family are like flowers in a bouquet: there's always one determined to face in an opposite direction from the way the arranger desires. Marcelene Cox |
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