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The unconquerable pang of despised love.
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
Pang
Unconquerable
Despised
Love
More quotes by William Wordsworth
That to this mountain-daisy's self were known The beauty of its star-shaped shadow, thrown On the smooth surface of this naked stone!
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Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns.
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Meek Walton's heavenly memory.
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And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.
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O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?
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Not Chaos, not the darkest pit of lowest Erebus, nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out by help of dreams - can breed such fear and awe as fall upon us often when we look into our Minds, into the Mind of Man.
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When men change swords for ledgers, and desert The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed I had, my Country--am I to be blamed?
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Oh for a single hour of that Dundee Who on that day the word of onset gave!
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The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink I heard a voice it said Drink, pretty creature, drink'
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Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower.
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Give all thou canst high Heaven rejects the lore of nicely-caluculated less or more.
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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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His high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright.
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Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room And hermits are contented with their cells.
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Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.
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A soul so pitiably forlorn, If such do on this earth abide, May season apathy with scorn, May turn indifference to pride And still be not unblest- compared With him who grovels, self-debarred From all that lies within the scope Of holy faith and christian hope Or, shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.
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Poetry is emotion recollected in tranquillity.
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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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We bow our heads before Thee, and we laud, And magnify thy name Almighty God! But man is thy most awful instrument, In working out a pure intent.
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Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.
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