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O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?
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
Bird
Shall
Call
Blithe
Voice
Cuckoo
Cuckoos
Wandering
Wander
Thee
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Take the sweet poetry of life away, and what remains behind?
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The soft blue sky did never melt Into his heart he never felt The witchery of the soft blue sky!
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In truth the prison, unto which we doom Ourselves, no prison is.
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But an old age serene and bright, and lovely as a Lapland night, shall lead thee to thy grave.
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My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began So is it now I am a man.
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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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Wisdom sits with children round her knees.
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And he is oft the wisest manWho is not wise at all.
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Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows Like harmony in music there is a dark Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles Discordant elements, makes them cling together In one society.
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The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.
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Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.
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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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Prompt to move but firm to wait - knowing things rashly sought are rarely found.
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in the mind of man, A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things.
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As thou these ashes, little brook, wilt bear Into the Avon, Avon to the tide Of Severn, Severn to the narrow seas, Into main ocean they, this deed accursed An emblem yields to friends and enemies How the bold teacher's doctrine, sanctified By truth, shall spread, throughout the world dispersed.
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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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Oh, blank confusion! true epitome Of what the mighty City is herself, To thousands upon thousands of her sons, Living amid the same perpetual whirl Of trivial objects, melted and reduced To one identity.
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Give all thou canst high Heaven rejects the lore of nicely-caluculated less or more.
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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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