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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.
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
Food
Cooking
Wiles
Simple
Kissing
Kisses
Nature
Daily
Transient
Human
Blame
Sorrows
Humans
Praise
Smiles
Good
Sorrow
Creature
Love
Creatures
Bright
Tears
Simplicity
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Truth takes no account of centuries.
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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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Nature's old felicities.
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Dreams, books, are each a world and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow.
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Wisdom sits with children round her knees.
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The Eagle, he was lord above
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A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by One after one the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky - I've thought of all by turns, and still I lie Sleepless.
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This solitary Tree! a living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay Of form and aspect too magnificent To be destroyed.
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Heaven lies about us in our infancy.
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A multitude of causes unknown to former times are now acting with a combined force to blunt the discriminating powers of the mind, and unfitting it for all voluntary exertion to reduce it to a state of almost savage torpor.
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What we have loved Others will love And we will teach them how.
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Truths that wake To perish never
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Up! up! my friend, and quit your books, Or surely you 'll grow double! Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks! Why all this toil and trouble?
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I'm not talking about a show me other walls of this thing button, I mean a stumble button for wallbase.
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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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Me this uncharted freedom tires I feel the weight of chance desires, My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same.
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Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect
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For mightier far Than strength of nerve or sinew, or the sway Of magic potent over sun and star, Is love, though oft to agony distrest, And though his favourite be feeble woman's breast.
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The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.
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Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill The Ploughboy is whooping — anon — anon! There's joy in the mountains: There's life in the fountains Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing The rain is over and gone.
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