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Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet
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
Hands
Thing
Trumpet
Milton
Trumpets
Became
Hand
More quotes by William Wordsworth
The mysteries that cups of flowers infold And all the gorgeous sights which fairies do behold.
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The sunshine is a glorious birth But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.
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A genial hearth, a hospitable board, and a refined rusticity.
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Scorn not the sonnet. Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart.
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Those old credulities, to Nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock Of history?
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Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns.
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For youthful faults ripe virtues shall atone.
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I travelled among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea Nor England! did I know till then What love I bore to thee.
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.
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Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
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poetry is the breath and finer spirit of knowledge
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Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive But to be young was very heaven.
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The child shall become father to the man.
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The Primrose for a veil had spread The largest of her upright leaves And thus for purposes benign, A simple flower deceives.
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On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, Musing is solitude
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Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
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Heaven lies about us in our infancy.
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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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Nature's old felicities.
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Wisdom and Spirit of the universe! Thou soul, that art the eternity of thought, And giv'st to forms and images a breath And everlasting motion.
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