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And when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet whence he blew Soul-animating strains,-alas! too few.
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
Became
Whence
Path
Blew
Hand
Trumpets
Hands
Strain
Animating
Soul
Alas
Strains
Thing
Fell
Trumpet
Round
Milton
Rounds
Damp
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When from our better selves we have too long been parted by the hurrying world, and droop. Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, how gracious, how benign is solitude.
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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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The intellectual power, through words and things, Went sounding on a dim and perilous way!
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I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough, along the mountain-side. By our own spirits we are deified We Poets in our youth begin in gladness, But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
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But an old age serene and bright, and lovely as a Lapland night, shall lead thee to thy grave.
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How does the Meadow flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free down to its root, and in that freedom bold.
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Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?
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The childhood of today is the manhood of tomorrow
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A lawyer art thou? Draw not nigh! Go, carry to some fitter place The keenness of that practised eye, The hardness of that sallow face.
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Happier of happy though I be, like them I cannot take possession of the sky, mount with a thoughtless impulse, and wheel there, one of a mighty multitude whose way and motion is a harmony and dance magnificent.
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No motion has she now, no force she neither hears nor sees rolled around in earth's diurnal course, with rocks, and stones, and trees.
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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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That mighty orb of song, The divine Milton.
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Give all thou canst high Heaven rejects the lore of nicely-caluculated less or more.
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That to this mountain-daisy's self were known The beauty of its star-shaped shadow, thrown On the smooth surface of this naked stone!
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A cheerful life is what the Muses love. A soaring spirit is their prime delight.
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Wisdom sits with children round her knees.
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Pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.
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Death is the quiet haven of us all.
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Pictures deface walls more often than they decorate them.
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