Sweet as the tender fragrance that survives, When martyred flowers breathe out their little lives, Sweet as a song that once consoled our pain, But never will be sung to us again, Is they remembrance. Now the hour of rest. Hath come to thee. Sleep, darling: it is best.
Henry Wadsworth LongfellowAbout author
- Author's profession: Poet
- Nationality: american
- Born: February 27, 1807
- Died: March 24, 1882
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If I profess with loudest voice and clearest exposition every portion of the truth of God except that little point which the world and the Devil are at that moment attacking, I am not confessing Christ, however boldly I may be professing Christ. Where the battle rages, there the loyalty of the soldier is proved, and to be steady on all the battlefield besides, is mere flight and disgrace if he flinches at that point.
Martin Luther