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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.
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
Fortune
Flow
Transience
Fate
Sweep
Generations
Feeble
Strong
Decay
Away
Customs
Art
Arts
Come
Powers
More quotes by William Wordsworth
Not in Utopia, -- subterranean fields, --Or some secreted island, Heaven knows whereBut in the very world, which is the worldOf all of us, -- the place where in the endWe find our happiness, or not at all
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A deep distress has humanised my soul.
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I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough, along the mountain-side. By our own spirits we are deified We Poets in our youth begin in gladness, But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
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Heaven lies about us in our infancy.
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Truths that wake To perish never
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A babe, by intercourse of touch I held mute dialogues with my Mother's heart.
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For mightier far Than strength of nerve or sinew, or the sway Of magic potent over sun and star, Is love, though oft to agony distrest, And though his favourite be feeble woman's breast.
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Pictures deface walls more often than they decorate them.
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In years that bring the philosophic mind.
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Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive But to be young was very heaven.
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A mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone.
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When men change swords for ledgers, and desert The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed I had, my Country--am I to be blamed?
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Scorn not the sonnet. Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart.
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Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.
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Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade Of that which once was great is passed away.
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Oft in my way have I stood still, though but a casual passenger, so much I felt the awfulness of life.
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Where the statue stood Of Newton, with his prism and silent face, The marble index of a mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of thought alone.
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Life is divided into three terms - that which was, which is, and which will be. Let us learn from the past to profit by the present, and from the present, to live better in the future.
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Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.
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She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.
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