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Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.
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
Melancholy
Brought
Grace
Beauty
Though
Happy
Place
Pensive
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The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an angel's wing.
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A lake carries you into recesses of feeling otherwise impenetrable.
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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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But who, if he be called upon to face Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined Great issues, good or bad for humankind, Is happy as a lover.
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Death is the quiet haven of us all.
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Laying out grounds... may be considered as a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.... it is to assist Nature in moving the affections... the affections of those who have the deepest perception of the beauty of Nature.
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Bright flower! whose home is everywhere Bold in maternal nature's care And all the long year through the heir Of joy or sorrow, Methinks that there abides in thee Some concord with humanity, Given to no other flower I see The forest through.
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Or shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.
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Habit rules the unreflecting herd.
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The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone
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Books are yours, Within whose silent chambers treasure lies Preserved from age to age more precious far Than that accumulated store of gold And orient gems, which, for a day of need, The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs. These hoards of truth you can unlock at will.
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... and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
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We live by Admiration, Hope, and Love And, even as these are well and wisely fixed, In dignity of being we ascend.
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Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.
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The wealthiest man among us is the best
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In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts bring sad thoughts to the mind.
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Books are the best type of the influence of the past.
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Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?
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Sad fancies do we then affect, In luxury of disrespect To our own prodigal excess Of too familiar happiness.
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