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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.
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
Like
Heal
Soothe
Shining
Charities
Charity
Scattered
Flower
Primal
Duty
Duties
Feet
Shine
Stars
Bless
Men
Flowers
Aloft
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Lady of the Mere, Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.
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The softest breeze to fairest flowers gives birth: Think not that Prudence dwells in dark abodes, She scans the future with the eye of gods.
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At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.
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Laying out grounds may be considered a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.
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The Poet, gentle creature as he is, Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times His fits when he is neither sick nor well, Though no distress be near him but his own Unmanageable thoughts.
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For oft, when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood they flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude
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In truth the prison, unto which we doom Ourselves, no prison is.
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Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close upon the growing boy.
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Wisdom sits with children round her knees.
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The stars of midnight shall be dear To her and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face.
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But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.
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The child shall become father to the man.
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Fear is a cloak which old men huddle about their love, as if to keep it warm.
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One with more of soul in his face than words on his tongue.
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Or shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.
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The very flowers are sacred to the poor.
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Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.
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Miss not the occasion by the forelock take that subtle power, the never-halting time.
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The fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.
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Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade Of that which once was great is passed away.
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