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Come grow old with me. The best is yet to be.
William Wordsworth
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William Wordsworth
Age: 80 †
Born: 1770
Born: April 7
Died: 1850
Died: April 23
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Cockermouth
Cumbria
Wordsworth
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More quotes by William Wordsworth
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 very flowers are sacred to the poor.
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The childhood of today is the manhood of tomorrow
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The earth was all before me. With a heart Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty, I look about and should the chosen guide Be nothing better than a wandering cloud, I cannot miss my way.
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By all means sometimes be alone salute thyself see what thy soul doth wear dare to look in thy chest and tumble up and down what thou findest there.
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That inward eye/ Which is the bliss of solitude.
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On a fair prospect some have looked, And felt, as I have heard them say, As if the moving time had been A thing as steadfast as the scene On which they gazed themselves away.
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Oh, blank confusion! true epitome Of what the mighty City is herself, To thousands upon thousands of her sons, Living amid the same perpetual whirl Of trivial objects, melted and reduced To one identity.
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I'll teach my boy the sweetest things I'll teach him how the owlet sings.
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To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
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Dreams, books, are each a world.
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But how can he expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?
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She was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight, A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament Her eyes as stars of twilight fair, Like twilights too her dusky hair, But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn.
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Up! up! my friend, and quit your books, Or surely you 'll grow double! Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks! Why all this toil and trouble?
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From the body of one guilty deed a thousand ghostly fears and haunting thoughts proceed.
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Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower.
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Poetry is the outcome of emotions recollected in tranquility.
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The mind that is wise mourns less for what age takes away than what it leaves behind.
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Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science
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Laying out grounds may be considered a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.
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