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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.
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
Earth
Guides
Better
Chosen
Look
Clouds
Nothing
Miss
Wandering
Looks
Scared
Joyous
Heart
Missing
Cloud
Way
Liberty
Guide
Cannot
Wander
More quotes by William Wordsworth
The moving accident is not my trade To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.
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Since thy return, through days and weeks Of hope that grew by stealth, How many wan and faded cheeks Have kindled into health! The Old, by thee revived, have said, 'Another year is ours' And wayworn Wanderers, poorly fed, Have smiled upon thy flowers.
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Wisdom married to immortal verse.
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Hope smiled when your nativity was cast, Children of Summer!
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Stop thinking for once in your life!
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Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.
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Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee! . . . . . . Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart: So didst thou travel on life's common way In cheerful godliness.
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Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind--But how could I forget thee?
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Fear is a cloak which old men huddle about their love, as if to keep it warm.
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The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.
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What is pride? A rocket that emulates the stars.
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The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone
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Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence.
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A Briton even in love should be A subject, not a slave!
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Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretch'd in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
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Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither.
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Ten thousand saw I at a glance, tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
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Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
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A tale in everything.
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The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.
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