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A simple child. That lightly draws its breath. And feels its life in every limb. What should it know of death?
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
Every
Breath
Life
Breaths
Draws
Child
Simple
Death
Limb
Feels
Lightly
Children
Limbs
More quotes by William Wordsworth
Science appears but what in truth she is, Not as our glory and our absolute boast, But as a succedaneum, and a prop To our infirmity.
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Small service is true service, while it lasts.
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Minds that have nothing to confer Find little to perceive.
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The thought of our past years in me doth breed perpetual benedictions.
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Give all thou canst high Heaven rejects the lore of nicely-caluculated less or more.
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One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave.
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Babylon, Learned and wise, hath perished utterly, Nor leaves her speech one word to aid the sigh That would lament her.
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In years that bring the philosophic mind.
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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!
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It is the 1st mild day of March. Each minute sweeter than before... there is a blessing in the air.
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Father! - to God himself we cannot give a holier name.
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We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted.
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The mind of man is a thousand times more beautiful than the earth on which he dwells.
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Sweet is the lore which Nature brings Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: We murder to dissect.
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Great is the glory, for the strife is hard!
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One solace yet remains for us who came Into this world in days when story lacked Severe research, that in our hearts we know How, for exciting youth's heroic flame, Assent is power, belief the soul of fact.
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The child shall become father to the man.
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A great poet ought to a certain degree to rectify men's feelings... to render their feelings more sane, pure and permanent, in short, more consonant to Nature.
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That mighty orb of song, The divine Milton.
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The child is father of the man: And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
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