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The thought of death sits easy on the man Who has been born and dies among the mountains.
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
Men
Mountains
Mountain
Among
Dies
Born
Easy
Death
Thought
Sits
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The mind that is wise mourns less for what age takes away than what it leaves behind.
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But who is innocent? By grace divine, Not otherwise,O Nature! we are thine.
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Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.
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It is the 1st mild day of March. Each minute sweeter than before... there is a blessing in the air.
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Laying out grounds may be considered a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.
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And I am happy when I sing.
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One impulse from a vernal wood
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A Primrose by a river's brim A yellow primrose was to him And it was something more.
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Sweet Mercy! to the gates of heaven This minstrel lead, his sins forgiven The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour, And memory of Earth's bitter leaven Effaced forever.
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The first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
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Babylon, Learned and wise, hath perished utterly, Nor leaves her speech one word to aid the sigh That would lament her.
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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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We live by Admiration, Hope, and Love And, even as these are well and wisely fixed, In dignity of being we ascend.
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Type of the wise who soar but never roam, True to the kindred points of heaven and home.
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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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The ocean is a mighty harmonist.
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She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be But she is in her grave, and oh The difference to me!
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For nature then to me was all in all.
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The moving accident is not my trade To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.
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Love betters what is best
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