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I listened, motionless and still And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.
William Wordsworth
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William Wordsworth
Age: 80 †
Born: 1770
Born: April 7
Died: 1850
Died: April 23
Lyricist
Poet
Cockermouth
Cumbria
Wordsworth
Hill
Music
Bores
Heart
Listened
Long
Hills
Musical
Mounted
Heard
Motionless
Stills
Bore
Still
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Far from the world I walk, and from all care.
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The mind that is wise mourns less for what age takes away than what it leaves behind.
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O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?
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Those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings Blank misgivings of a Creature Moving about in worlds not realised, High instincts before which our mortal Nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised
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Nature's old felicities.
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Come grow old with me. The best is yet to be.
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Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will Dear God! the very houses seem asleep And all that mighty heart is lying still!
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Before us lay a painful road, And guidance have I sought in duteous love From Wisdom's heavenly Father. Hence hath flowed Patience, with trust that, whatsoe'er the way Each takes in this high matter, all may move Cheered with the prospect of a brighter day.
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The tears into his eyes were brought, And thanks and praises seemed to run So fast out of his heart, I thought They never would have done. -I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning Alas! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left me mourning.
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The softest breeze to fairest flowers gives birth: Think not that Prudence dwells in dark abodes, She scans the future with the eye of gods.
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Dreams, books, are each a world and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow.
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Like an army defeated the snow hath retreated.
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Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill The Ploughboy is whooping — anon — anon! There's joy in the mountains: There's life in the fountains Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing The rain is over and gone.
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She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.
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There is a comfort in the strength of love 'Twill make a thing endurable, which else would overset the brain, or break the heart.
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Yet sometimes, when the secret cup Of still and serious thought went round, It seemed as if he drank it up, He felt with spirit so profound.
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And when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet whence he blew Soul-animating strains,-alas! too few.
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Stern daughter of the voice of God! O Duty! if that name thou love Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring and reprove.
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The budding rose above the rose full blown.
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Oh, blank confusion! true epitome Of what the mighty City is herself, To thousands upon thousands of her sons, Living amid the same perpetual whirl Of trivial objects, melted and reduced To one identity.
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