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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
Living
Confusion
Epitome
True
Thousands
Amid
Son
Trivial
Identity
Reduced
City
Sons
Objects
Mighty
Cities
Blank
Whirl
Upon
Perpetual
Melted
More quotes by William Wordsworth
A light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove.
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How does the Meadow flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free down to its root, and in that freedom bold.
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Tis said, fantastic ocean doth enfold The likeness of whate'er on land is seen.
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Stop thinking for once in your life!
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Burn all the statutes and their shelves: They stir us up against our kind And worse, against ourselves.
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O Reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle Reader! you would find A tale in everything.
William Wordsworth
Those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings Blank misgivings of a Creature Moving about in worlds not realised, High instincts before which our mortal Nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised
William Wordsworth
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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Therefore am I still a lover of the meadows and the woods, and mountains and of all that we behold from this green earth.
William Wordsworth
If thou art beautiful, and youth and thought endue thee with all truth-be strong--be worthy of the grace of God.
William Wordsworth
But who would force the soul tilts with a straw Against a champion cased in adamant
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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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May books and nature be their early joy!
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That mighty orb of song, The divine Milton.
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One solace yet remains for us who came Into this world in days when story lacked Severe research, that in our hearts we know How, for exciting youth's heroic flame, Assent is power, belief the soul of fact.
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Now when the primrose makes a splendid show, And lilies face the March-winds in full blow, And humbler growths as moved with one desire Put on, to welcome spring, their best attire, Poor Robin is yet flowerless but how gay With his red stalks upon this sunny day!
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Earth has not anything to show more fair.
William Wordsworth
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.
William Wordsworth
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep/ Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind.
William Wordsworth
Mark the babe not long accustomed to this breathing world One that hath barely learned to shape a smile, though yet irrational of soul, to grasp with tiny finger - to let fall a tear And, as the heavy cloud of sleep dissolves, To stretch his limbs, becoming, as might seem. The outward functions of intelligent man.
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