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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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The sunshine is a glorious birth But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.
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Imagination, which in truth Is but another name for absolute power And clearest insight, amplitude of mind, And reason, in her most exalted mood.
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Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.
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A cheerful life is what the Muses love. A soaring spirit is their prime delight.
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But how can he expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?
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Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
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Neither evil tongues, rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all the dreary intercourse of daily life, shall ever prevail against us.
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For oft, when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood they flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude
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my brain Worked with a dim and undetermined sense Of unknown modes of being o'er my thoughts There hung a darkness, call it solitude Or blank desertion.
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Shalt show us how divine a thing A woman may be made.
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The child is the father of man.
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The stars of midnight shall be dear To her and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face.
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May books and nature be their early joy!
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Therefore am I still a lover of the meadows and the woods, and mountains and of all that we behold from this green earth.
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Lady of the Mere, Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.
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Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.
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I travelled among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea Nor England! did I know till then What love I bore to thee.
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A great poet ought to a certain degree to rectify men's feelings... to render their feelings more sane, pure and permanent, in short, more consonant to Nature.
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Nor will I then thy modest grace forget, Chaste Snow-drop, venturous harbinger of Spring, And pensive monitor of fleeting years!
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The eye— it cannot choose but see we cannot bid the ear be still our bodies feel, where'er they be, against or with our will.
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