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The fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world Have hung upon the beatings of my 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
Beatings
Unprofitable
Stir
Fever
Hung
Upon
Heart
World
Fretful
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These hoards of wealth you can unlock at will.
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Mark the babe not long accustomed to this breathing world One that hath barely learned to shape a smile, though yet irrational of soul, to grasp with tiny finger - to let fall a tear And, as the heavy cloud of sleep dissolves, To stretch his limbs, becoming, as might seem. The outward functions of intelligent man.
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Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound.
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She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.
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On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, Musing in solitude, I oft perceive Fair trains of images before me rise, Accompanied by feelings of delight Pure, or with no unpleasing sadness mixed.
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Huge and mighty forms that do not live like living men, moved slowly through the mind by day and were trouble to my dreams.
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A power is passing from the earth.
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The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.
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When men change swords for ledgers, and desert The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed I had, my Country--am I to be blamed?
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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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Tis said, fantastic ocean doth enfold The likeness of whate'er on land is seen.
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But how can he expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?
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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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Sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart.
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Since thy return, through days and weeks Of hope that grew by stealth, How many wan and faded cheeks Have kindled into health! The Old, by thee revived, have said, 'Another year is ours' And wayworn Wanderers, poorly fed, Have smiled upon thy flowers.
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Serene will be our days, and bright and happy will our nature be, when love is an unerring light, and joy its own security.
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Books are yours, Within whose silent chambers treasure lies Preserved from age to age more precious far Than that accumulated store of gold And orient gems, which, for a day of need, The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs. These hoards of truth you can unlock at will.
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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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