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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.
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
State
Savages
Modernism
Acting
Reduce
Exertion
Times
Unknown
Voluntary
Force
Powers
Blunt
States
Former
Multitude
Mind
Stupid
Savage
Causes
Combined
Torpor
Almost
Multitudes
Discriminating
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Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, We feel that we are greater than we know.
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The moving accident is not my trade To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.
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Wisdom is oftentimes nearer when we stoop than when we soar.
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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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Small service is true service, while it lasts.
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Since every mortal power of Coleridge Was frozen at its marvellous source, The rapt one, of the godlike forehead, The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth: And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, Has vanished from his lonely hearth.
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A few strong instincts and a few plain rules.
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Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour Have passed away less happy than the one That by the unwilling ploughshare died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love.
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My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began So is it now I am a man.
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Fear is a cloak which old men huddle about their love, as if to keep it warm.
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Two voices are there one is of the sea, One of the mountains: each a mighty Voice.
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Wrongs unredressed, or insults unavenged.
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Happier of happy though I be, like them I cannot take possession of the sky, mount with a thoughtless impulse, and wheel there, one of a mighty multitude whose way and motion is a harmony and dance magnificent.
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One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave.
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Plain living and high thinking are no more.
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Let beeves and home-bred kine partake The sweets of Burn-mill meadow The swan on still St. Mary's Lake Float double, swan and shadow!
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The clouds that gather round the setting sun, Do take a sober colouring from an eye, That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality.
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Everything is tedious when one does not read with the feeling of the Author.
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The Eagle, he was lord above
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Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind--But how could I forget thee?
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