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Often have I sighed to measure By myself a lonely pleasure,- Sighed to think I read a book, Only read, perhaps, by me.
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
Read
Often
Shunning
Book
Sighed
Think
Loneliness
Thinking
Measure
Lonely
Perhaps
Pleasure
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The Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose.
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I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, wherever nature led.
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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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The mind of man is a thousand times more beautiful than the earth on which he dwells.
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Knowledge and increase of enduring joy From the great Nature that exists in works Of mighty Poets.
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There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream.
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Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.
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The common growth of Mother Earth Suffices me,-her tears, her mirth, Her humblest mirth and tears.
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We bow our heads before Thee, and we laud, And magnify thy name Almighty God! But man is thy most awful instrument, In working out a pure intent.
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There is a comfort in the strength of love 'Twill make a thing endurable, which else would overset the brain, or break the heart.
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I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough, along the mountain-side. By our own spirits we are deified We Poets in our youth begin in gladness, But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
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Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none / Look up a second time, and, one by one, / You mark them twinkling out with silvery light, / And wonder how they could elude the sight!
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Oh for a single hour of that Dundee Who on that day the word of onset gave!
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What we have loved Others will love And we will teach them how.
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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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I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills When all at once I saw a crowd A host of golden daffodils Beside the lake beneath the trees Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
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Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge - it is as immortal as the heart of man.
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Alas! how little can a moment show Of an eye where feeling plays In ten thousand dewy rays: A face o'er which a thousand shadows go!
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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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The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone
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