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This solitary Tree! a living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay Of form and aspect too magnificent To be destroyed.
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
Tree
Living
Decay
Form
Magnificent
Ever
Solitary
Thing
Produced
Slowly
Destroyed
Aspect
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The childhood of today is the manhood of tomorrow
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The child is the father of man.
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Sweet is the lore which Nature brings Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect. Enough of Science and of Art Close up these barren leaves Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives.
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Turning, for them who pass, the common dust Of servile opportunity to gold.
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Serene will be our days, and bright and happy will our nature be, when love is an unerring light, and joy its own security.
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My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began So is it now I am a man So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! The Child is father of the Man I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
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But trailing clouds of glory do we come, From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy!.
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All that we behold is full of blessings.
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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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... and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
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Far from the world I walk, and from all care.
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And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore.
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Sweet childish days, that were as long, As twenty days are now.
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Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows Like harmony in music there is a dark Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles Discordant elements, makes them cling together In one society.
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But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.
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He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.
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How is it that you live, and what is it you do?
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Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep/ Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind.
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One impulse from a vernal wood
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