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Out of the bosom of the Air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Silent, and soft, and slow Descends the snow.
— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Hatred, in the course of time, kills the unhappy wretch who delights in nursing it in his bosom.
— Giacomo Casanova
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