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We must be free or die, who speak the tongue That Shakespeare spake the faith and morals hold Which Milton held.
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
Speak
Held
Death
Tongue
Must
Hold
Moral
Dies
Spake
Freedom
Milton
Free
Morals
Faith
Shakespeare
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A light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove.
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What we have loved Others will love And we will teach them how.
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A tale in everything.
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Now when the primrose makes a splendid show, And lilies face the March-winds in full blow, And humbler growths as moved with one desire Put on, to welcome spring, their best attire, Poor Robin is yet flowerless but how gay With his red stalks upon this sunny day!
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For all things are less dreadful than they seem.
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A babe, by intercourse of touch I held mute dialogues with my Mother's heart.
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The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone
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The intellectual power, through words and things, Went sounding on a dim and perilous way!
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Wild is the music of autumnal winds Amongst the faded woods.
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Habit rules the unreflecting herd.
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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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Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.
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The Poet, gentle creature as he is, Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times His fits when he is neither sick nor well, Though no distress be near him but his own Unmanageable thoughts.
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Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns.
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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.
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The sunshine is a glorious birth But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.
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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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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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Wisdom is oftentimes nearer when we stoop than when we soar.
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Long as there's a sun that sets, Primroses will have their glory Long as there are violets, They will have a place in story: There's a flower that shall be mine, 'Tis the little Celandine.
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