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Golf is a day spent in a round of strenuous idleness.
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
Golf
Golfers
Sports
Idleness
Retired
Retiring
Retirement
Round
Rounds
Strenuous
Spent
Golfing
More quotes by William Wordsworth
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.
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This solitary Tree! a living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay Of form and aspect too magnificent To be destroyed.
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But an old age serene and bright, and lovely as a Lapland night, shall lead thee to thy grave.
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Where the statue stood Of Newton, with his prism and silent face, The marble index of a mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of thought alone.
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When men change swords for ledgers, and desert The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed I had, my Country--am I to be blamed?
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I'm not talking about a show me other walls of this thing button, I mean a stumble button for wallbase.
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...one interior life in which all beings live with God, themselves are God, existing in the mighty whole, indistinguishable as the cloudless east is from the cloudless west, when all the hemisphere is one cerulean blue.
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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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The Eagle, he was lord above
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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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One impulse from a vernal wood
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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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Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns.
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Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.
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Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry and these we adore Plain living and high thinking are no more.
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The intellectual power, through words and things, Went sounding on a dim and perilous way!
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A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light
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Earth has not anything to show more fair.
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Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.
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There's something in a flying horse, There's something in a huge balloon.
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