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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
Upon
Perpetual
Melted
Living
Confusion
Epitome
True
Thousands
Amid
Son
Trivial
Identity
Reduced
City
Sons
Objects
Mighty
Cities
Blank
Whirl
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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
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Nature never did betray the heart that loved her.
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Wisdom married to immortal verse.
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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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Wrongs unredressed, or insults unavenged.
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The child is father of the man: And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
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This solitary Tree! a living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay Of form and aspect too magnificent To be destroyed.
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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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O Reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle Reader! you would find A tale in everything.
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Because the good old rule Sufficeth them,-the simple plan, That they should take who have the power, And they should keep who can.
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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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With little here to do or see Of things that in the great world be, Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee For thou art worthy, Thou unassuming commonplace Of Nature, with that homely face, And yet with something of a grace Which love makes for thee!
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Type of the wise who soar but never roam, True to the kindred points of heaven and home.
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Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain That has been, and may be again.
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Often have I sighed to measure By myself a lonely pleasure,- Sighed to think I read a book, Only read, perhaps, by me.
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