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On a fair prospect some have looked, And felt, as I have heard them say, As if the moving time had been A thing as steadfast as the scene On which they gazed themselves away.
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
Moving
Gazed
Felt
Steadfast
Away
Prospect
Thing
Fairs
Time
Fair
Looked
Scene
Heard
More quotes by William Wordsworth
The Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society.
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And you must love him, ere to you He will seem worthy of your love.
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Either still I find Some imperfection in the chosen theme, Or see of absolute accomplishment Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself, That I recoil and droop, and seek repose In listlessness from vain perplexity, Unprofitably travelling towards the grave.
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Laying out grounds may be considered a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.
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How many undervalue the power of simplicity ! But it is the real key to the heart.
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There is creation in the eye.
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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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That inward eye/ Which is the bliss of solitude.
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... and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
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Meek Walton's heavenly memory.
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A genial hearth, a hospitable board, and a refined rusticity.
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The fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.
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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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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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One in whom persuasion and belief Had ripened into faith, and faith become A passionate intuition.
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Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While 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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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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The flower that smells the sweetest is shy and lowly.
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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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Yet tears to human suffering are due And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown Are mourned by man, and not by man alone.
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