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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
Dies
Born
Easy
Death
Thought
Sits
Men
Mountains
Mountain
Among
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By happy chance we saw A twofold image: on a grassy bank A snow-white ram, and in the crystal flood Another and the same!
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What is good for a bootless bene? With these dark words begins my tale And their meaning is, Whence can comfort spring When prayer is of no avail?
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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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Since thy return, through days and weeks Of hope that grew by stealth, How many wan and faded cheeks Have kindled into health! The Old, by thee revived, have said, 'Another year is ours' And wayworn Wanderers, poorly fed, Have smiled upon thy flowers.
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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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And mighty poets in their misery dead.
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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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The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an angel's wing.
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The harvest of a quiet eye, That broods and sleeps on his own heart.
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Truth takes no account of centuries.
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Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, Let them live upon their praises.
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A power is passing from the earth.
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Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar.
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The Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose.
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Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn
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Laying out grounds may be considered a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.
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I listened, motionless and still And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.
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The Eagle, he was lord above
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Bright flower! whose home is everywhere Bold in maternal nature's care And all the long year through the heir Of joy or sorrow, Methinks that there abides in thee Some concord with humanity, Given to no other flower I see The forest through.
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