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Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.
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
Mourn
Suffer
Suffering
Hope
War
Without
More quotes by William Wordsworth
Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.
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O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive!
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Me this uncharted freedom tires I feel the weight of chance desires, My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same.
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Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion.
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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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A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard... Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.
William Wordsworth
Huge and mighty forms that do not live like living men, moved slowly through the mind by day and were trouble to my dreams.
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the Mind of Man-- My haunt, and the main region of my song.
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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.
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I have felt a presence that disturbs me with the joy of elevated thoughts a sense sublime of something far more deeply interfused, whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, and the round ocean, and the living air, and the blue sky, and in the mind of man.
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Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room And hermits are contented with their cells.
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Choice word and measured phrase above the reach Of ordinary men.
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Books are yours, Within whose silent chambers treasure lies Preserved from age to age more precious far Than that accumulated store of gold And orient gems, which, for a day of need, The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs. These hoards of truth you can unlock at will.
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. Not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come.
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The Eagle, he was lord above
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With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars.
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In ourselves our safety must be sought. By our own right hand it must be wrought.
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Plain living and high thinking are no more.
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my brain Worked with a dim and undetermined sense Of unknown modes of being o'er my thoughts There hung a darkness, call it solitude Or blank desertion.
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Everything is tedious when one does not read with the feeling of the Author.
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