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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.
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
Whether
Hope
Infinitude
Desire
Evermore
Young
Expectation
Home
Expectations
Heart
Destiny
Something
Effort
Never
Dies
More quotes by William Wordsworth
I listened, motionless and still And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar.
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He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.
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Departing summer hath assumed An aspect tenderly illumed, The gentlest look of spring That calls from yonder leafy shade Unfaded, yet prepared to fade, A timely carolling.
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Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close upon the growing boy.
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Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect
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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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Society became my glittering bride, And airy hopes my children.
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Oft in my way have I stood still, though but a casual passenger, so much I felt the awfulness of life.
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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.
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One of those heavenly days that cannot die.
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Careless of books, yet having felt the power Of Nature, by the gentle agency Of natural objects, led me on to feel For passions that were not my own, and think (At random and imperfectly indeed) On man, the heart of man, and human life.
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Science appears but what in truth she is, Not as our glory and our absolute boast, But as a succedaneum, and a prop To our infirmity.
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In truth the prison, unto which we doom Ourselves, no prison is.
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Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns.
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Sweetest melodies.Are those that are by distance made more sweet.
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Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.
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The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.
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Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay, And could not win thee, Sleep, by any stealth: So do not let me wear to-night away. Without thee what is all the morning's wealth? Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
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The childhood of today is the manhood of tomorrow
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