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The world is too much with us late and soon, getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours.
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
Little
Spending
Much
Waste
World
Soon
Late
Environment
Getting
Boon
Nature
Powers
Littles
Lays
More quotes by William Wordsworth
A lawyer art thou? Draw not nigh! Go, carry to some fitter place The keenness of that practised eye, The hardness of that sallow face.
William Wordsworth
Pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.
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Sweet Mercy! to the gates of heaven This minstrel lead, his sins forgiven The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour, And memory of Earth's bitter leaven Effaced forever.
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To be young was very heaven!
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Hearing often-times the still, sad music of humanity, nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power to chasten and subdue.
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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.
William Wordsworth
O dearer far than light and life are dear.
William Wordsworth
Prompt to move but firm to wait - knowing things rashly sought are rarely found.
William Wordsworth
The stars of midnight shall be dear To her and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face.
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My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard.
William Wordsworth
Give unto me, made lowly wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice The confidence of reason give, And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live!
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We live by admiration, hope and love.
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She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be But she is in her grave, and oh The difference to me!
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This City now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie Open unto the fields and to the sky All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
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Meek Walton's heavenly memory.
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Not in Utopia, -- subterranean fields, --Or some secreted island, Heaven knows whereBut in the very world, which is the worldOf all of us, -- the place where in the endWe find our happiness, or not at all
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In heaven above, And earth below, they best can serve true gladness Who meet most feelingly the calls of sadness.
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Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion.
William Wordsworth
In truth the prison, unto which we doom Ourselves, no prison is.
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Faith is a passionate intuition.
William Wordsworth