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Give all thou canst high Heaven rejects the lore of nicely-caluculated less or more.
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
Giving
Rejects
Generosity
Charity
Thou
Lore
High
Canst
Heaven
Nicely
Less
Philanthropic
Give
Philanthropy
More quotes by William Wordsworth
I listened, motionless and still And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.
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The sightless Milton, with his hair Around his placid temples curled And Shakespeare at his side,-a freight, If clay could think and mind were weight, For him who bore the world!
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Worse than idle is compassion if it ends in tears and sighs.
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But He is risen, a later star of dawn.
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A multitude of causes unknown to former times are now acting with a combined force to blunt the discriminating powers of the mind, and unfitting it for all voluntary exertion to reduce it to a state of almost savage torpor.
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Sweetest melodies.Are those that are by distance made more sweet.
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The child is father of the man.
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While all the future, for thy purer soul, With sober certainties of love is blest.
William Wordsworth
Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed Their snow-white blossoms on my head, With brightest sunshine round me spread Of spring's unclouded weather, In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard-seat! And birds and flowers once more to greet, My last year's friends together.
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Brothers all In honour, as in one community, Scholars and gentlemen.
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Imagination, which in truth Is but another name for absolute power And clearest insight, amplitude of mind, And reason, in her most exalted mood.
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Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares!- The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays.
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On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, Musing is solitude
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Men who can hear the Decalogue, and feel To self-reproach.
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Great God! I'd rather be a Pagan.
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I have felt a presence that disturbs me with the joy of elevated thoughts a sense sublime of something far more deeply interfused, whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, and the round ocean, and the living air, and the blue sky, and in the mind of man.
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The memory of the just survives in Heaven.
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That though the radiance which was once so bright be now forever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, glory in the flower. We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
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Careless of books, yet having felt the power Of Nature, by the gentle agency Of natural objects, led me on to feel For passions that were not my own, and think (At random and imperfectly indeed) On man, the heart of man, and human life.
William Wordsworth
The harvest of a quiet eye, That broods and sleeps on his own heart.
William Wordsworth