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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.
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
Forms
Shapes
Beauteous
Sweet
Dissect
Nature
Lore
Form
Meddling
Things
Intellect
Murder
Brings
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[Mathematics] is an independent world created out of pure intelligence.
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How many undervalue the power of simplicity ! But it is the real key to the heart.
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We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
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Let the moon shine on the in thy solitary walk and let the misty mountain-winds be free to blow against thee.
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.
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For all things are less dreadful than they seem.
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Bright flower! whose home is everywhere Bold in maternal nature's care And all the long year through the heir Of joy or sorrow, Methinks that there abides in thee Some concord with humanity, Given to no other flower I see The forest through.
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Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive But to be young was very heaven.
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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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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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Prompt to move but firm to wait - knowing things rashly sought are rarely found.
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Everything is tedious when one does not read with the feeling of the Author.
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Delivered from the galling yoke of time.
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One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.
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A brotherhood of venerable trees.
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I, methought, while the sweet breath of heaven Was blowing on my body, felt within A correspondent breeze, that gently moved With quickening virtue, but is now become A tempest, a redundant energy, Vexing its own creation.
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A genial hearth, a hospitable board, and a refined rusticity.
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The thought of death sits easy on the man Who has been born and dies among the mountains.
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I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough, along the mountain-side. By our own spirits we are deified We Poets in our youth begin in gladness, But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
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Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.
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