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As high as we have mounted in delight, In our dejection do we sink as low.
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
High
Change
Dejection
Mounted
Sink
Lows
Delight
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Like an army defeated the snow hath retreated.
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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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One with more of soul in his face than words on his tongue.
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Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower.
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A deep distress has humanised my soul.
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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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Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.
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Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And, even with something of a mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster child, her inmate man, Forget the glories he hath known And that imperial palace whence he came.
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He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.
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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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One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave.
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A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free.
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