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Delivered from the galling yoke of time.
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
Time
Galling
Yoke
Delivered
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The memory of the just survives in Heaven.
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I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills When all at once I saw a crowd A host of golden daffodils Beside the lake beneath the trees Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
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All that we behold is full of blessings.
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The unconquerable pang of despised love.
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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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True beauty dwells in deep retreats, Whose veil is unremoved Till heart with heart in concord beats, And the lover is beloved.
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And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore.
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Rest and be thankful.
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Those old credulities, to Nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock Of history?
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As generations come and go, Their arts, their customs, ebb and flow Fate, fortune, sweep strong powers away, And feeble, of themselves, decay.
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I'm not talking about a show me other walls of this thing button, I mean a stumble button for wallbase.
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Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.
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Since every mortal power of Coleridge Was frozen at its marvellous source, The rapt one, of the godlike forehead, The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth: And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, Has vanished from his lonely hearth.
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Faith is a passionate intuition.
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.
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The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone
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In truth the prison, unto which we doom Ourselves, no prison is.
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A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays And confident tomorrows.
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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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Knowing that Nature never did betray the heart that loved her 'tis her privilege, through all the years of this our life, to lead from joy to joy.
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