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The Primrose for a veil had spread The largest of her upright leaves And thus for purposes benign, A simple flower deceives.
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
Deceiving
Purposes
Primrose
Leaves
Deceives
Spread
Upright
Thus
Benign
Flower
Veil
Purpose
Veils
Simple
Largest
More quotes by William Wordsworth
I, methought, while the sweet breath of heaven Was blowing on my body, felt within A correspondent breeze, that gently moved With quickening virtue, but is now become A tempest, a redundant energy, Vexing its own creation.
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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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Sweet is the lore which Nature brings Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: We murder to dissect.
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Often have I sighed to measure By myself a lonely pleasure,- Sighed to think I read a book, Only read, perhaps, by me.
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Enough, if something from our hands have power To live, and act, and serve the future hour And if, as toward the silent tomb we go, Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, We feel that we are greater than we know.
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One impulse from a vernal wood
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Give all thou canst high Heaven rejects the lore of nicely-caluculated less or more.
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Memories... images and precious thoughts that shall not die and cannot be destroyed.
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Poetry is the outcome of emotions recollected in tranquility.
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Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive But to be young was very heaven.
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That best portion of a man's life, his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love.
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The memory of the just survives in Heaven.
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Wild is the music of autumnal winds Amongst the faded woods.
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Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares!- The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays.
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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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Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge - it is as immortal as the heart of man.
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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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Burn all the statutes and their shelves: They stir us up against our kind And worse, against ourselves.
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In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard seat And birds and flowers once more to greet. . . .
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A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by One after one the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky - I've thought of all by turns, and still I lie Sleepless.
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