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Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?
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
Periwinkle
Lament
Reason
Made
Men
More quotes by William Wordsworth
Those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings Blank misgivings of a Creature Moving about in worlds not realised, High instincts before which our mortal Nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised
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Of friends, however humble, scorn not one.
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Oft in my way have I stood still, though but a casual passenger, so much I felt the awfulness of life.
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Then blame not those who, by the mightiest lever Known to the moral world, Imagination.
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Truths that wake To perish never
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Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there In happier beauty more pellucid streams, An ampler ether, a diviner air, And fields invested with purpureal gleams.
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Happier of happy though I be, like them I cannot take possession of the sky, mount with a thoughtless impulse, and wheel there, one of a mighty multitude whose way and motion is a harmony and dance magnificent.
William Wordsworth
The unconquerable pang of despised love.
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Great God! I'd rather be a Pagan.
William Wordsworth
I listened, motionless and still And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.
William Wordsworth
It is the 1st mild day of March. Each minute sweeter than before... there is a blessing in the air.
William Wordsworth
A babe, by intercourse of touch I held mute dialogues with my Mother's heart.
William Wordsworth
Science appears but what in truth she is, Not as our glory and our absolute boast, But as a succedaneum, and a prop To our infirmity.
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A Primrose by a river's brim A yellow primrose was to him And it was something more.
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The harvest of a quiet eye, That broods and sleeps on his own heart.
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Brothers all In honour, as in one community, Scholars and gentlemen.
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Since every mortal power of Coleridge Was frozen at its marvellous source, The rapt one, of the godlike forehead, The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth: And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, Has vanished from his lonely hearth.
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O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?
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Milton, thou should'st be living at this hour.
William Wordsworth
Meek Nature's evening comment on the shows That for oblivion take their daily birth From all the fuming vanities of earth.
William Wordsworth