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Therefore am I still a lover of the meadows and the woods, and mountains and of all that we behold from this green earth.
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
Nature
Behold
Stills
Lover
Earth
Mountains
Still
Woods
Lovers
Mountain
Green
Therefore
Meadows
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Truth takes no account of centuries.
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Sweet is the lore which Nature brings Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect. Enough of Science and of Art Close up these barren leaves Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives.
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He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.
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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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Poetry is emotion recollected in tranquillity.
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Give unto me, made lowly wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice The confidence of reason give, And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live!
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Poetry is the outcome of emotions recollected in tranquility.
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The vision and the faculty divine Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse.
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one daffodil is worth a thousand pleasures, then one is too few.
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Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will Dear God! the very houses seem asleep And all that mighty heart is lying still!
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Wisdom and Spirit of the universe! Thou soul, that art the eternity of thought, And giv'st to forms and images a breath And everlasting motion.
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What is pride? A rocket that emulates the stars.
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We must be free or die, who speak the tongue That Shakespeare spake the faith and morals hold Which Milton held.
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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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To character and success, two things, contradictory as they may seem, must go together... humble dependence on God and manly reliance on self.
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There is a luxury in self-dispraise And inward self-disparagement affords To meditative spleen a grateful feast.
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A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays And confident tomorrows.
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There is creation in the eye.
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Habit rules the unreflecting herd.
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At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.
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