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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.
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
Enjoys
Breathe
Tufts
Air
Bower
Flower
Periwinkle
Sweet
Trailed
Faith
Primrose
Enjoy
Wreaths
Every
Breathes
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Sweet childish days, that were as long, As twenty days are now.
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A few strong instincts and a few plain rules.
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The Poet, gentle creature as he is, Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times His fits when he is neither sick nor well, Though no distress be near him but his own Unmanageable thoughts.
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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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Heaven lies about us in our infancy.
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She seemed a thing that could not feel the touch of earthly years.
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Death is the quiet haven of us all.
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A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
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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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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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Laying out grounds... may be considered as a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.... it is to assist Nature in moving the affections... the affections of those who have the deepest perception of the beauty of Nature.
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Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.
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This City now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie Open unto the fields and to the sky All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
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For nature then to me was all in all.
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Monastic brotherhood, upon rock Aerial.
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The harvest of a quiet eye, That broods and sleeps on his own heart.
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Father! - to God himself we cannot give a holier name.
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True beauty dwells in deep retreats, Whose veil is unremoved Till heart with heart in concord beats, And the lover is beloved.
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His high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright.
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Chains tie us down by land and sea And wishes, vain as mine, may be All that is left to comfort thee.
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