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She seemed a thing that could not feel the touch of earthly years.
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
Earthly
Seemed
Touch
Nature
Feel
Feels
Thing
Years
More quotes by William Wordsworth
...one interior life in which all beings live with God, themselves are God, existing in the mighty whole, indistinguishable as the cloudless east is from the cloudless west, when all the hemisphere is one cerulean blue.
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Books are the best type of the influence of the past.
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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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What know we of the Blest above but that they sing, and that they love?
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Truths that wake To perish never
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She was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight, A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament Her eyes as stars of twilight fair, Like twilights too her dusky hair, But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn.
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Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, We feel that we are greater than we know.
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Delivered from the galling yoke of time.
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The unconquerable pang of despised love.
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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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Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room And hermits are contented with their cells.
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The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink I heard a voice it said Drink, pretty creature, drink'
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But trailing clouds of glory do we come, From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy!.
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Prompt to move but firm to wait - knowing things rashly sought are rarely found.
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Oh, be wise, Thou! Instructed that true knowledge leads to love.
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Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity.
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The memory of the just survives in Heaven.
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I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough, along the mountain-side. By our own spirits we are deified We Poets in our youth begin in gladness, But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
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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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Everything is tedious when one does not read with the feeling of the Author.
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