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And through the heat of conflict keeps the law In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw.
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
Conflict
Law
Made
Foresaw
Calmness
Heat
Sees
Keeps
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Rapt into still communion that transcends The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, His mind was a thanksgiving to the power That made him it was blessedness and love!
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While all the future, for thy purer soul, With sober certainties of love is blest.
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Whether we be young or old,Our destiny, our being's heart and home,Is with infinitude, and only thereWith hope it is, hope that can never die,Effort and expectation, and desire,And something evermore about to be.
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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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Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, We feel that we are greater than we know.
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When his veering gait And every motion of his starry train Seem governed by a strain Of music, audible to him alone.
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Plain living and high thinking are no more. The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone our peace, our fearful innocence, And pure religion breathing household laws.
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In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease and, of its joy secure, The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, And on the vacant air.
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Pleasures newly found are sweet When they lie about our feet.
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A youth to whom was given So much of earth, so much of heaven.
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Truths that wake To perish never
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Spade! Thou art a tool of honor in my hands. I press thee, through a yielding soil, with pride.
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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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Turning, for them who pass, the common dust Of servile opportunity to gold.
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Laying out grounds may be considered a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.
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Memories... images and precious thoughts that shall not die and cannot be destroyed.
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Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher.
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One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave.
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A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard... Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.
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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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