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How many undervalue the power of simplicity ! But it is the real key to the heart.
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
Heart
Undervalue
Simplicity
Keys
Art
Power
Many
Real
More quotes by William Wordsworth
What is good for a bootless bene? With these dark words begins my tale And their meaning is, Whence can comfort spring When prayer is of no avail?
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The Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose.
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Shalt show us how divine a thing A woman may be made.
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If the time should ever come when what is now called Science, thus famliarised to men, shall be ready to put on, as it were, a form of flesh and blood, the Poet will lend his divine spirit to the aid the transfiguration, and will welcome the Being thus produced, as a dear and genuine inmate of the household of man.
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the Mind of Man-- My haunt, and the main region of my song.
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Nature's old felicities.
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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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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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That to this mountain-daisy's self were known The beauty of its star-shaped shadow, thrown On the smooth surface of this naked stone!
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All that we behold is full of blessings.
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Wrongs unredressed, or insults unavenged.
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A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard... Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.
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A famous man is Robin Hood, The English ballad-singer's joy.
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In truth the prison, unto which we doom Ourselves, no prison is.
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And suddenly all your troubles melt away, all your worries are gone, and it is for no reason other than the look in your partner's eyes. Yes, sometimes life and love really is that simple.
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The wind, a sightless laborer, whistles at his task.
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Hope smiled when your nativity was cast, Children of Summer!
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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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The mysteries that cups of flowers infold And all the gorgeous sights which fairies do behold.
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Departing summer hath assumed An aspect tenderly illumed, The gentlest look of spring That calls from yonder leafy shade Unfaded, yet prepared to fade, A timely carolling.
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