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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
Thing
Years
Earthly
Seemed
Touch
Nature
Feel
Feels
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Brothers all In honour, as in one community, Scholars and gentlemen.
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I'm not talking about a show me other walls of this thing button, I mean a stumble button for wallbase.
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Recognizes ever and anon The breeze of Nature stirring in his soul.
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. Not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come.
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But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.
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A light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove.
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But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.
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Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, Let them live upon their praises.
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The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration.
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Sweetest melodies.Are those that are by distance made more sweet.
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Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence.
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Not Chaos, not the darkest pit of lowest Erebus, nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out by help of dreams - can breed such fear and awe as fall upon us often when we look into our Minds, into the Mind of Man.
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Delivered from the galling yoke of time.
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'T is hers to pluck the amaranthine flower Of faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower, And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.
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The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.
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As in the eye of Nature he has lived, So in the eye of Nature let him die!
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But who, if he be called upon to face Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined Great issues, good or bad for humankind, Is happy as a lover.
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Dreams, books, are each a world and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow.
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I have felt a presence that disturbs me with the joy of elevated thoughts a sense sublime of something far more deeply interfused, whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, and the round ocean, and the living air, and the blue sky, and in the mind of man.
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The streams with softest sound are flowing, The grass you almost hear it growing, You hear it now, if e'er you can.
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