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A genial hearth, a hospitable board, and a refined rusticity.
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
Refined
Board
Boards
Cooking
Eating
Food
Hospitable
Genial
Hearth
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The first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
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In heaven above, And earth below, they best can serve true gladness Who meet most feelingly the calls of sadness.
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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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Rapt into still communion that transcends The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, His mind was a thanksgiving to the power That made him it was blessedness and love!
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Meek Nature's evening comment on the shows That for oblivion take their daily birth From all the fuming vanities of earth.
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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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These hoards of wealth you can unlock at will.
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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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A brotherhood of venerable trees.
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And through the heat of conflict keeps the law In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw.
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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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To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
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That inward eye/ Which is the bliss of solitude.
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Choice word and measured phrase above the reach Of ordinary men.
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A deep distress has humanised my soul.
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Let the moon shine on the in thy solitary walk and let the misty mountain-winds be free to blow against thee.
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Action is transitory, a step, a blow, The motion of a muscle, this way or that, 'Tis done--And in the after-vacancy, We wonder at ourselves, like men betrayed.
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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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Poetry is the outcome of emotions recollected in tranquility.
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In modern business it is not the crook who is to be feared most, it is the honest man who doesn't know what he is doing.
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