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The holiest of all holidays are those Kept by ourselves in silence and apart; The secret anniversaries of the heart, When the full river of feeling overflows;- The happy days unclouded to their close; The sudden joys that our of darkness start As flames from ashes; swift desires that dart Like swallows singing down each wind that blows!
— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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If something burns your soul with purpose and desire, it’s your duty to be reduced to ashes by it. Any other form of existence will be yet another dull book in the library of life.
— Charles Bukowski
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