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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
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Nothing
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Grass
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The wealthiest man among us is the best
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In spite of difference of soil and climate, of language and manners, of laws and customs-in spite of things silently gone out of mind, and things violently destroyed, the Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society, as it is spread over the whole earth, and over all time.
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With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars.
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Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, We feel that we are greater than we know.
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Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind--But how could I forget thee?
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I'll teach my boy the sweetest things I'll teach him how the owlet sings.
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Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there In happier beauty more pellucid streams, An ampler ether, a diviner air, And fields invested with purpureal gleams.
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Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.
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Whether we be young or old,Our destiny, our being's heart and home,Is with infinitude, and only thereWith hope it is, hope that can never die,Effort and expectation, and desire,And something evermore about to be.
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The education of circumstances is superior to that of tuition.
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Sweetest melodies.Are those that are by distance made more sweet.
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And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.
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To character and success, two things, contradictory as they may seem, must go together... humble dependence on God and manly reliance on self.
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And now I see with eye serene, The very pulse of the machine. A being breathing thoughtful breaths, A traveler between life and death.
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With little here to do or see Of things that in the great world be, Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee For thou art worthy, Thou unassuming commonplace Of Nature, with that homely face, And yet with something of a grace Which love makes for thee!
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Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray.
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We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted.
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Yet tears to human suffering are due And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown Are mourned by man, and not by man alone.
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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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Stern daughter of the voice of God! O Duty! if that name thou love Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring and reprove.
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