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The mind of man is a thousand times more beautiful than the earth on which he dwells.
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
Times
Beautiful
Earth
Mind
Men
Dwells
Thousand
More quotes by William Wordsworth
Society became my glittering bride, And airy hopes my children.
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Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?
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A Primrose by a river's brim A yellow primrose was to him And it was something more.
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Type of the wise who soar but never roam, True to the kindred points of heaven and home.
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Father! - to God himself we cannot give a holier name.
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One with more of soul in his face than words on his tongue.
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The very flowers are sacred to the poor.
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Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity.
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Pleasures newly found are sweet When they lie about our feet.
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Wisdom married to immortal verse.
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Behold the Child among his new-born blisses A six years' Darling of a pigmy size! See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly-learned art.
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in the mind of man, A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things.
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Truth takes no account of centuries.
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His high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright.
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Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows Like harmony in music there is a dark Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles Discordant elements, makes them cling together In one society.
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A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
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Poetry is the outcome of emotions recollected in tranquility.
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At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.
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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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Far from the world I walk, and from all care.
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