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Oh, blank confusion! true epitome Of what the mighty City is herself, To thousands upon thousands of her sons, Living amid the same perpetual whirl Of trivial objects, melted and reduced To one identity.
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
Identity
Reduced
City
Sons
Objects
Mighty
Whirl
Cities
Blank
Melted
Upon
Perpetual
Epitome
Living
Confusion
Amid
True
Thousands
Son
Trivial
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Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none / Look up a second time, and, one by one, / You mark them twinkling out with silvery light, / And wonder how they could elude the sight!
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[Mathematics] is an independent world created out of pure intelligence.
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Huge and mighty forms that do not live like living men, moved slowly through the mind by day and were trouble to my dreams.
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The fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.
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As generations come and go, Their arts, their customs, ebb and flow Fate, fortune, sweep strong powers away, And feeble, of themselves, decay.
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The harvest of a quiet eye, That broods and sleeps on his own heart.
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Dreams, books, are each a world and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow.
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The Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose.
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In truth the prison, unto which we doom Ourselves, no prison is.
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The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.
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Stern daughter of the voice of God! O Duty! if that name thou love Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring and reprove.
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Give unto me, made lowly wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice The confidence of reason give, And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live!
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