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While all the future, for thy purer soul, With sober certainties of love is blest.
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
Future
Soul
Love
Life
Certainties
Blest
Purer
Sober
Certainty
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A youth to whom was given So much of earth, so much of heaven.
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Faith is a passionate intuition.
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The world is too much with us late and soon, getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours.
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Yet sometimes, when the secret cup Of still and serious thought went round, It seemed as if he drank it up, He felt with spirit so profound.
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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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The mind of man is a thousand times more beautiful than the earth on which he dwells.
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The best of what we do and are, Just God, forgive!
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A simple child. That lightly draws its breath. And feels its life in every limb. What should it know of death?
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That blessed mood in which the burthen of the mystery, in which the heavy and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world is lightened.
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Oh, blank confusion! true epitome Of what the mighty City is herself, To thousands upon thousands of her sons, Living amid the same perpetual whirl Of trivial objects, melted and reduced To one identity.
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How fast has brother followed brother, From sunshine to the sunless land!
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The primal duties shine aloft, like stars The charities that soothe, and heal, and bless, Are scattered at the feet of Man, like flowers.
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In heaven above, And earth below, they best can serve true gladness Who meet most feelingly the calls of sadness.
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Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour Have passed away less happy than the one That by the unwilling ploughshare died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love.
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Great men have been among us hands that penn'd And tongues that utter'd wisdom--better none
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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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For all things are less dreadful than they seem.
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Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion.
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But who, if he be called upon to face Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined Great issues, good or bad for humankind, Is happy as a lover.
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Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.
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