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Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.
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
Provoking
Inevitable
Bring
Years
Provoke
Yoke
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The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone
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Sweet Mercy! to the gates of heaven This minstrel lead, his sins forgiven The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour, And memory of Earth's bitter leaven Effaced forever.
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The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.
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In ourselves our safety must be sought. By our own right hand it must be wrought.
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Let the moon shine on the in thy solitary walk and let the misty mountain-winds be free to blow against thee.
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Wisdom married to immortal verse.
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Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry and these we adore Plain living and high thinking are no more.
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We bow our heads before Thee, and we laud, And magnify thy name Almighty God! But man is thy most awful instrument, In working out a pure intent.
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Books are the best type of the influence of the past.
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The daisy, by the shadow that it casts, Protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun.
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Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there In happier beauty more pellucid streams, An ampler ether, a diviner air, And fields invested with purpureal gleams.
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He spake of love, such love as spirits feel In worlds whose course is equable and pure No fears to beat away, no strife to heal,- The past unsighed for, and the future sure.
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. Not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come.
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The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.
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While all the future, for thy purer soul, With sober certainties of love is blest.
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Yet tears to human suffering are due And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown Are mourned by man, and not by man alone.
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Prompt to move but firm to wait - knowing things rashly sought are rarely found.
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Long as there's a sun that sets, Primroses will have their glory Long as there are violets, They will have a place in story: There's a flower that shall be mine, 'Tis the little Celandine.
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There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream.
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For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity.
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