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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.
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
Statue
Strange
Seas
Alone
Forever
Statues
Face
Newton
Voyaging
Faces
Marble
Prism
Thought
Stood
Prisms
Mind
Silent
Index
Sea
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Wrongs unredressed, or insults unavenged.
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A light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove.
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And when the stream Which overflowed the soul was passed away, A consciousness remained that it had left Deposited upon the silent shore Of memory images and precious thoughts That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed.
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The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, An appetite a feeling and a love that had no need of a remoter charm by thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.
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In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard seat And birds and flowers once more to greet. . . .
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But to a higher mark than song can reach, Rose this pure eloquence.
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Wisdom and spirit of the Universe!
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I should dread to disfigure the beautiful ideal of the memories of illustrious persons with incongruous features, and to sully the imaginative purity of classical works with gross and trivial recollections.
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The mind that is wise mourns less for what age takes away than what it leaves behind.
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But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.
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Nature's old felicities.
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The first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
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One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave.
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Truths that wake To perish never
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What know we of the Blest above but that they sing, and that they love?
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The softest breeze to fairest flowers gives birth: Think not that Prudence dwells in dark abodes, She scans the future with the eye of gods.
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At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.
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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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Knowledge and increase of enduring joy From the great Nature that exists in works Of mighty Poets.
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My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard.
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