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Meek Nature's evening comment on the shows That for oblivion take their daily birth From all the fuming vanities of earth.
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
Birth
Fuming
Shows
Vanities
Nature
Meek
Earth
Oblivion
Take
Comment
Vanity
Evening
Daily
More quotes by William Wordsworth
Those old credulities, to Nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock Of history?
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Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.
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Where the statue stood Of Newton, with his prism and silent face, The marble index of a mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of thought alone.
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Milton, thou should'st be living at this hour.
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Truths that wake To perish never
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I, methought, while the sweet breath of heaven Was blowing on my body, felt within A correspondent breeze, that gently moved With quickening virtue, but is now become A tempest, a redundant energy, Vexing its own creation.
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Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect
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The monumental pomp of age Was with this goodly personage A stature undepressed in size, Unbent, which rather seemed to rise In open victory o'er the weight Of seventy years, to loftier height.
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Minds that have nothing to confer Find little to perceive.
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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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On a fair prospect some have looked, And felt, as I have heard them say, As if the moving time had been A thing as steadfast as the scene On which they gazed themselves away.
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In truth the prison, unto which we doom Ourselves, no prison is.
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Delivered from the galling yoke of time.
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Knowledge and increase of enduring joy From the great Nature that exists in works Of mighty Poets.
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Oft on the dappled turf at ease I sit, and play with similes, Loose type of things through all degrees.
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Babylon, Learned and wise, hath perished utterly, Nor leaves her speech one word to aid the sigh That would lament her.
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The child is father of the man: And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
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Worse than idle is compassion if it ends in tears and sighs.
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The moving accident is not my trade To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.
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Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.
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