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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
Thinking
Measure
Lonely
Perhaps
Pleasure
Read
Often
Shunning
Book
Sighed
Think
Loneliness
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Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
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Scorn not the sonnet. Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart.
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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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But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.
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Turning, for them who pass, the common dust Of servile opportunity to gold.
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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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The mysteries that cups of flowers infold And all the gorgeous sights which fairies do behold.
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But who is innocent? By grace divine, Not otherwise,O Nature! we are thine.
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The ocean is a mighty harmonist.
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Babylon, Learned and wise, hath perished utterly, Nor leaves her speech one word to aid the sigh That would lament her.
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One solace yet remains for us who came Into this world in days when story lacked Severe research, that in our hearts we know How, for exciting youth's heroic flame, Assent is power, belief the soul of fact.
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I travelled among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea Nor England! did I know till then What love I bore to thee.
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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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With little here to do or see Of things that in the great world be, Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee For thou art worthy, Thou unassuming commonplace Of Nature, with that homely face, And yet with something of a grace Which love makes for thee!
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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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Take the sweet poetry of life away, and what remains behind?
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He spake of love, such love as spirits feel In worlds whose course is equable and pure No fears to beat away, no strife to heal,- The past unsighed for, and the future sure.
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The monumental pomp of age Was with this goodly personage A stature undepressed in size, Unbent, which rather seemed to rise In open victory o'er the weight Of seventy years, to loftier height.
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Knowing that Nature never did betray the heart that loved her 'tis her privilege, through all the years of this our life, to lead from joy to joy.
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Life is divided into three terms - that which was, which is, and which will be. Let us learn from the past to profit by the present, and from the present, to live better in the future.
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