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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
Step
Vacancy
Steps
Transitory
Wonder
Muscle
Action
Betrayed
Done
Betrayal
Way
Motion
Men
Muscles
Like
Blow
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The earth was all before me. With a heart Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty, I look about and should the chosen guide Be nothing better than a wandering cloud, I cannot miss my way.
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my brain Worked with a dim and undetermined sense Of unknown modes of being o'er my thoughts There hung a darkness, call it solitude Or blank desertion.
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The harvest of a quiet eye, That broods and sleeps on his own heart.
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Stop thinking for once in your life!
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Death is the quiet haven of us all.
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Earth has not anything to show more fair.
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Bright flower! whose home is everywhere Bold in maternal nature's care And all the long year through the heir Of joy or sorrow, Methinks that there abides in thee Some concord with humanity, Given to no other flower I see The forest through.
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He spake of love, such love as spirits feel In worlds whose course is equable and pure No fears to beat away, no strife to heal,- The past unsighed for, and the future sure.
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Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet
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Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither.
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Hope smiled when your nativity was cast, Children of Summer!
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Love betters what is best
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And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.
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These hoards of wealth you can unlock at will.
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A famous man is Robin Hood, The English ballad-singer's joy.
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A Primrose by a river's brim A yellow primrose was to him And it was something more.
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To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
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Free as a bird to settle where I will.
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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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The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration.
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