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Thought and theory must precede all action, that moves to salutary purposes. Yet action is nobler in itself than either thought or theory.
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
Theory
Either
Action
Thought
Salutary
Must
Precede
Nobler
Purposes
Moves
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Primroses, the Spring may love them Summer knows but little of them.
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Plain living and high thinking are no more.
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Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.
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Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, Let them live upon their praises.
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It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the sea: Listen! the mighty being is awake, And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thundereverlastingly.
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Oft on the dappled turf at ease I sit, and play with similes, Loose type of things through all degrees.
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In modern business it is not the crook who is to be feared most, it is the honest man who doesn't know what he is doing.
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His high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright.
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Tis said, fantastic ocean doth enfold The likeness of whate'er on land is seen.
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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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But to a higher mark than song can reach, Rose this pure eloquence.
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my brain Worked with a dim and undetermined sense Of unknown modes of being o'er my thoughts There hung a darkness, call it solitude Or blank desertion.
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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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Men who can hear the Decalogue, and feel To self-reproach.
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Me this uncharted freedom tires I feel the weight of chance desires, My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same.
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A cheerful life is what the Muses love. A soaring spirit is their prime delight.
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A lawyer art thou? Draw not nigh! Go, carry to some fitter place The keenness of that practised eye, The hardness of that sallow face.
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Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.
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A genial hearth, a hospitable board, and a refined rusticity.
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Those old credulities, to Nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock Of history?
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