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Action is transitory, a step, a blow, The motion of a muscle, this way or that, 'Tis done--And in the after-vacancy, We wonder at ourselves, like men betrayed.
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
Men
Muscles
Like
Blow
Step
Vacancy
Steps
Transitory
Wonder
Muscle
Action
Betrayed
Done
Betrayal
Way
Motion
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The Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose.
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The vision and the faculty divine Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse.
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We have within ourselves Enough to fill the present day with joy, And overspread the future years with hope.
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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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Up! up! my friend, and quit your books, Or surely you 'll grow double! Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks! Why all this toil and trouble?
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A Briton even in love should be A subject, not a slave!
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Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee! . . . . . . Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart: So didst thou travel on life's common way In cheerful godliness.
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Worse than idle is compassion if it ends in tears and sighs.
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A simple child. That lightly draws its breath. And feels its life in every limb. What should it know of death?
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I should dread to disfigure the beautiful ideal of the memories of illustrious persons with incongruous features, and to sully the imaginative purity of classical works with gross and trivial recollections.
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But an old age serene and bright, and lovely as a Lapland night, shall lead thee to thy grave.
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The thought of our past years in me doth breed perpetual benedictions.
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O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive!
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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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Knowledge and increase of enduring joy From the great Nature that exists in works Of mighty Poets.
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Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.
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The childhood of today is the manhood of tomorrow
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To the solid ground Of nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye.
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She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be But she is in her grave, and oh The difference to me!
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The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, An appetite a feeling and a love that had no need of a remoter charm by thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.
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