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The very flowers are sacred to the poor.
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
Flowers
Sacred
Flower
Poor
More quotes by William Wordsworth
O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?
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Books are the best type of the influence of the past.
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A power is passing from the earth.
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Imagination is the means of deep insight and sympathy, the power to conceive and express images removed from normal objective reality.
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Poetry is the outcome of emotions recollected in tranquility.
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Write to me frequently & the longest letters possible never mind whether you have facts or no to communicate fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
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But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.
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Strongest minds are often those whom the noisy world hears least.
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Great is the glory, for the strife is hard!
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Society became my glittering bride, And airy hopes my children.
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Wisdom is oftentimes nearer when we stoop than when we soar.
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... and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
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But who shall parcel out His intellect by geometric rules, Split like a province into round and square?
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What are fears but voices airy? Whispering harm where harm is not. And deluding the unwary Till the fatal bolt is shot!
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It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the sea: Listen! the mighty being is awake, And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thundereverlastingly.
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True beauty dwells in deep retreats, Whose veil is unremoved Till heart with heart in concord beats, And the lover is beloved.
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Oh, blank confusion! true epitome Of what the mighty City is herself, To thousands upon thousands of her sons, Living amid the same perpetual whirl Of trivial objects, melted and reduced To one identity.
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Poetry has never brought me in enough money to buy shoestrings.
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Bright gem instinct with music, vocal spark.
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For mightier far Than strength of nerve or sinew, or the sway Of magic potent over sun and star, Is love, though oft to agony distrest, And though his favourite be feeble woman's breast.
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