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Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close upon the growing boy.
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
Close
Boys
Shades
Growing
Infancy
Heaven
Shade
Lying
Prison
Upon
Childhood
House
Begin
Time
Lies
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The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink I heard a voice it said Drink, pretty creature, drink'
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Poetry has never brought me in enough money to buy shoestrings.
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Oft in my way have I stood still, though but a casual passenger, so much I felt the awfulness of life.
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Like an army defeated the snow hath retreated.
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The mind of man is a thousand times more beautiful than the earth on which he dwells.
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A famous man is Robin Hood, The English ballad-singer's joy.
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Rapt into still communion that transcends The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, His mind was a thanksgiving to the power That made him it was blessedness and love!
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We Poets in our youth begin in gladness But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
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That inward eye/ Which is the bliss of solitude.
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The Primrose for a veil had spread The largest of her upright leaves And thus for purposes benign, A simple flower deceives.
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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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Truth takes no account of centuries.
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When from our better selves we have too long been parted by the hurrying world, and droop. Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, how gracious, how benign is solitude.
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Let beeves and home-bred kine partake The sweets of Burn-mill meadow The swan on still St. Mary's Lake Float double, swan and shadow!
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Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?
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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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The child is father of the man: And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
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Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And, even with something of a mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster child, her inmate man, Forget the glories he hath known And that imperial palace whence he came.
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Recognizes ever and anon The breeze of Nature stirring in his soul.
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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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