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Sweet childish days, that were as long, As twenty days are now.
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
Management
Childhood
Sweet
Days
Long
Childish
Twenty
Twenties
More quotes by William Wordsworth
... and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
William Wordsworth
Before us lay a painful road, And guidance have I sought in duteous love From Wisdom's heavenly Father. Hence hath flowed Patience, with trust that, whatsoe'er the way Each takes in this high matter, all may move Cheered with the prospect of a brighter day.
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For youthful faults ripe virtues shall atone.
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With an eye made quiet by the power of harmony, and the deep power of joy, we see into the life of things.
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The world is too much with us late and soon, getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours.
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A power is passing from the earth.
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A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light
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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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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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Thou unassuming common-place of Nature, with that homely face.
William Wordsworth
The child shall become father to the man.
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I should dread to disfigure the beautiful ideal of the memories of illustrious persons with incongruous features, and to sully the imaginative purity of classical works with gross and trivial recollections.
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Books are the best type of the influence of the past.
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Stern daughter of the voice of God! O Duty! if that name thou love Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring and reprove.
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At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.
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Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep/ Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind.
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And now I see with eye serene, The very pulse of the machine. A being breathing thoughtful breaths, A traveler between life and death.
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In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard seat And birds and flowers once more to greet. . . .
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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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Every great and original writer, in proportion as he is great and original, must himself create the taste by which he is to be relished.
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