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That best portion of a man's life, his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love.
William Wordsworth
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William Wordsworth
Age: 80 †
Born: 1770
Born: April 7
Died: 1850
Died: April 23
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Cockermouth
Cumbria
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More quotes by William Wordsworth
Every gift of noble origin Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath.
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There is a luxury in self-dispraise And inward self-disparagement affords To meditative spleen a grateful feast.
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Great men have been among us hands that penn'd And tongues that utter'd wisdom--better none
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Love betters what is best
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Nature never did betray the heart that loved her.
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And he is oft the wisest manWho is not wise at all.
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A lake carries you into recesses of feeling otherwise impenetrable.
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Pleasures newly found are sweet When they lie about our feet.
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Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed Their snow-white blossoms on my head, With brightest sunshine round me spread Of spring's unclouded weather, In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard-seat! And birds and flowers once more to greet, My last year's friends together.
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A multitude of causes unknown to former times are now acting with a combined force to blunt the discriminating powers of the mind, and unfitting it for all voluntary exertion to reduce it to a state of almost savage torpor.
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The human mind is capable of excitement without the application of gross and violent stimulants and he must have a very faint perception of its beauty and dignity who does not know this.
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But He is risen, a later star of dawn.
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Wisdom and spirit of the Universe!
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Yet tears to human suffering are due And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown Are mourned by man, and not by man alone.
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By all means sometimes be alone salute thyself see what thy soul doth wear dare to look in thy chest and tumble up and down what thou findest there.
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One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave.
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A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
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O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?
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Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows Like harmony in music there is a dark Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles Discordant elements, makes them cling together In one society.
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Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.
William Wordsworth