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How does the Meadow flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free down to its root, and in that freedom bold.
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
Doe
Bloom
Littles
Bold
Little
Root
Love
Lovely
Roots
Flower
Meadow
Freedom
Unfold
Free
Meadows
More quotes by William Wordsworth
The child is father of the man.
William Wordsworth
Everything is tedious when one does not read with the feeling of the Author.
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Either still I find Some imperfection in the chosen theme, Or see of absolute accomplishment Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself, That I recoil and droop, and seek repose In listlessness from vain perplexity, Unprofitably travelling towards the grave.
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By happy chance we saw A twofold image: on a grassy bank A snow-white ram, and in the crystal flood Another and the same!
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For oft, when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood they flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude
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We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
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Earth has not anything to show more fair.
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Imagination is the means of deep insight and sympathy, the power to conceive and express images removed from normal objective reality.
William Wordsworth
O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive!
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With little here to do or see Of things that in the great world be, Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee For thou art worthy, Thou unassuming commonplace Of Nature, with that homely face, And yet with something of a grace Which love makes for thee!
William Wordsworth
And through the heat of conflict keeps the law In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw.
William Wordsworth
And you must love him, ere to you He will seem worthy of your love.
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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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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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The budding rose above the rose full blown.
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Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.
William Wordsworth
The monumental pomp of age Was with this goodly personage A stature undepressed in size, Unbent, which rather seemed to rise In open victory o'er the weight Of seventy years, to loftier height.
William Wordsworth
Pictures deface walls more often than they decorate them.
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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.
William Wordsworth
Sweet is the lore which Nature brings Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect. Enough of Science and of Art Close up these barren leaves Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives.
William Wordsworth