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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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Or shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.
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Babylon, Learned and wise, hath perished utterly, Nor leaves her speech one word to aid the sigh That would lament her.
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A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
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The education of circumstances is superior to that of tuition.
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Faith is a passionate intuition.
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Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound.
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Death is the quiet haven of us all.
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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 world is too much with us late and soon, getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours.
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The first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
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Truth takes no account of centuries.
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Wild is the music of autumnal winds Amongst the faded woods.
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Wrongs unredressed, or insults unavenged.
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Nor will I then thy modest grace forget, Chaste Snow-drop, venturous harbinger of Spring, And pensive monitor of fleeting years!
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Pictures deface walls more often than they decorate them.
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Then blame not those who, by the mightiest lever Known to the moral world, Imagination.
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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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