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If thou art beautiful, and youth and thought endue thee with all truth-be strong--be worthy of the grace of God.
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
Grace
Beauty
Strong
Art
Beautiful
Thou
Thought
Thee
Truth
Worthy
Youth
More quotes by William Wordsworth
I listened, motionless and still And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.
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His high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright.
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Books are the best type of the influence of the past.
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Nature never did betray the heart that loved her.
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By happy chance we saw A twofold image: on a grassy bank A snow-white ram, and in the crystal flood Another and the same!
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Books are yours, Within whose silent chambers treasure lies Preserved from age to age more precious far Than that accumulated store of gold And orient gems, which, for a day of need, The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs. These hoards of truth you can unlock at will.
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But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.
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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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In ourselves our safety must be sought. By our own right hand it must be wrought.
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Hearing often-times the still, sad music of humanity, nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power to chasten and subdue.
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It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the sea: Listen! the mighty being is awake, And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thundereverlastingly.
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Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there In happier beauty more pellucid streams, An ampler ether, a diviner air, And fields invested with purpureal gleams.
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And when the stream Which overflowed the soul was passed away, A consciousness remained that it had left Deposited upon the silent shore Of memory images and precious thoughts That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed.
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One with more of soul in his face than words on his tongue.
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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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Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.
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A famous man is Robin Hood, The English ballad-singer's joy.
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Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.
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The primal duties shine aloft, like stars The charities that soothe, and heal, and bless, Are scattered at the feet of Man, like flowers.
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Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.
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