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Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower.
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
Nothing
Hour
Condolences
Flower
Splendour
Glory
Bereavement
Bring
Splendor
Though
Consolation
Hours
Sympathy
Past
Grass
Back
Grief
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Delivered from the galling yoke of time.
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O dearer far than light and life are dear.
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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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The memory of the just survives in Heaven.
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Nature's old felicities.
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Huge and mighty forms that do not live like living men, moved slowly through the mind by day and were trouble to my dreams.
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Turning, for them who pass, the common dust Of servile opportunity to gold.
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Happier of happy though I be, like them I cannot take possession of the sky, mount with a thoughtless impulse, and wheel there, one of a mighty multitude whose way and motion is a harmony and dance magnificent.
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Before us lay a painful road, And guidance have I sought in duteous love From Wisdom's heavenly Father. Hence hath flowed Patience, with trust that, whatsoe'er the way Each takes in this high matter, all may move Cheered with the prospect of a brighter day.
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Yon foaming flood seems motionless as iceIts dizzy turbulence eludes the eye,Frozen by distance.
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But to a higher mark than song can reach, Rose this pure eloquence.
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On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, Musing in solitude, I oft perceive Fair trains of images before me rise, Accompanied by feelings of delight Pure, or with no unpleasing sadness mixed.
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Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion.
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Far from the world I walk, and from all care.
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Milton, thou should'st be living at this hour.
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The best of what we do and are, Just God, forgive!
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The flower that smells the sweetest is shy and lowly.
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One solace yet remains for us who came Into this world in days when story lacked Severe research, that in our hearts we know How, for exciting youth's heroic flame, Assent is power, belief the soul of fact.
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Since every mortal power of Coleridge Was frozen at its marvellous source, The rapt one, of the godlike forehead, The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth: And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, Has vanished from his lonely hearth.
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Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretch'd in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
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