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... and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
William Wordsworth
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William Wordsworth
Age: 80 †
Born: 1770
Born: April 7
Died: 1850
Died: April 23
Lyricist
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Cockermouth
Cumbria
Wordsworth
Dimness
Shall
Stars
Pleasure
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More quotes by William Wordsworth
For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity.
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And mighty poets in their misery dead.
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Chains tie us down by land and sea And wishes, vain as mine, may be All that is left to comfort thee.
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As thou these ashes, little brook, wilt bear Into the Avon, Avon to the tide Of Severn, Severn to the narrow seas, Into main ocean they, this deed accursed An emblem yields to friends and enemies How the bold teacher's doctrine, sanctified By truth, shall spread, throughout the world dispersed.
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The mysteries that cups of flowers infold And all the gorgeous sights which fairies do behold.
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Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep/ Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind.
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Those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings Blank misgivings of a Creature Moving about in worlds not realised, High instincts before which our mortal Nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised
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How does the Meadow flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free down to its root, and in that freedom bold.
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Earth helped him with the cry of blood.
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Wisdom is oftentimes nearer when we stoop than when we soar.
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Pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.
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Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound.
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Oh for a single hour of that Dundee Who on that day the word of onset gave!
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The tears into his eyes were brought, And thanks and praises seemed to run So fast out of his heart, I thought They never would have done. -I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning Alas! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left me mourning.
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Yet tears to human suffering are due And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown Are mourned by man, and not by man alone.
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Great is the glory, for the strife is hard!
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O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive!
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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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O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?
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But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.
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