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Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, We feel that we are greater than we know.
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
Feels
Dower
Love
Transcendence
Transcendent
Greatness
Greater
Faith
Hope
Feel
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Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room And hermits are contented with their cells.
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Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher.
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Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge - it is as immortal as the heart of man.
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Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive But to be young was very heaven.
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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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But who would force the soul tilts with a straw Against a champion cased in adamant
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Knowledge and increase of enduring joy From the great Nature that exists in works Of mighty Poets.
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Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect
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The Eagle, he was lord above
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And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore.
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A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light
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Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.
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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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How fast has brother followed brother, From sunshine to the sunless land!
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Delivered from the galling yoke of time.
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Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And, even with something of a mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster child, her inmate man, Forget the glories he hath known And that imperial palace whence he came.
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The moving accident is not my trade To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.
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Not in Utopia, -- subterranean fields, --Or some secreted island, Heaven knows whereBut in the very world, which is the worldOf all of us, -- the place where in the endWe find our happiness, or not at all
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The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone
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Ah, what a warning for a thoughtless man, Could field or grove, could any spot of earth, Show to his eye an image of the pangs Which it hath witnessed,-render back an echo Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod!
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