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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
Life
Breaths
Draws
Child
Simple
Death
Limb
Feels
Lightly
Children
Limbs
Every
Breath
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One in whom persuasion and belief Had ripened into faith, and faith become A passionate intuition.
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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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The first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
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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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The budding rose above the rose full blown.
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The harvest of a quiet eye, That broods and sleeps on his own heart.
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Enough, if something from our hands have power To live, and act, and serve the future hour And if, as toward the silent tomb we go, Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, We feel that we are greater than we know.
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Choice word and measured phrase above the reach Of ordinary men.
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Pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.
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Books are the best type of the influence of the past.
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Spires whose silent finger points to heaven.
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But He is risen, a later star of dawn.
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That blessed mood in which the burthen of the mystery, in which the heavy and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world is lightened.
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The sightless Milton, with his hair Around his placid temples curled And Shakespeare at his side,-a freight, If clay could think and mind were weight, For him who bore the world!
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For by superior energies more strict affiance in each other faith more firm in their unhallowed principles, the bad have fairly earned a victory over the weak, the vacillating, inconsistent good.
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Tis not in battles that from youth we train The Governor who must be wise and good, And temper with the sternness of the brain Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood.
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True dignity abides with him alone Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, Can still suspect, and still revere himself, In lowliness of heart.
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But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.
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The daisy, by the shadow that it casts, Protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun.
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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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