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Plain living and high thinking are no more. The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone our peace, our fearful innocence, And pure religion breathing household laws.
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
Law
Innocence
Gone
Breathing
Religion
Laws
Peace
Pure
Living
Cause
Homely
Good
Causes
Fearful
Thinking
Beauty
Household
Life
High
Plain
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Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade Of that which once was great is passed away.
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It is the 1st mild day of March. Each minute sweeter than before... there is a blessing in the air.
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Prompt to move but firm to wait - knowing things rashly sought are rarely found.
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She was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight, A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament Her eyes as stars of twilight fair, Like twilights too her dusky hair, But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn.
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Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And, even with something of a mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster child, her inmate man, Forget the glories he hath known And that imperial palace whence he came.
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All men feel a habitual gratitude, and something of an honorable bigotry, for the objects which have long continued to please them.
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Brothers all In honour, as in one community, Scholars and gentlemen.
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Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry and these we adore Plain living and high thinking are no more.
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And the most difficult of tasks to keep Heights which the soul is competent to gain.
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The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink I heard a voice it said Drink, pretty creature, drink'
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Of friends, however humble, scorn not one.
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Imagination is the means of deep insight and sympathy, the power to conceive and express images removed from normal objective reality.
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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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Golf is a day spent in a round of strenuous idleness.
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A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
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A few strong instincts and a few plain rules.
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With little here to do or see Of things that in the great world be, Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee For thou art worthy, Thou unassuming commonplace Of Nature, with that homely face, And yet with something of a grace Which love makes for thee!
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Poetry is emotion recollected in tranquillity.
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Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower.
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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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