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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?
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
Desert
Gold
Bower
Students
Unnamed
Fear
Swords
Change
Blamed
Country
Patriotism
Men
Student
Fears
More quotes by William Wordsworth
Tis not in battles that from youth we train The Governor who must be wise and good, And temper with the sternness of the brain Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood.
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.
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Yon foaming flood seems motionless as iceIts dizzy turbulence eludes the eye,Frozen by distance.
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Careless of books, yet having felt the power Of Nature, by the gentle agency Of natural objects, led me on to feel For passions that were not my own, and think (At random and imperfectly indeed) On man, the heart of man, and human life.
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The gods approve The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul.
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Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither.
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Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher.
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As thou these ashes, little brook, wilt bear Into the Avon, Avon to the tide Of Severn, Severn to the narrow seas, Into main ocean they, this deed accursed An emblem yields to friends and enemies How the bold teacher's doctrine, sanctified By truth, shall spread, throughout the world dispersed.
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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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Every great and original writer, in proportion as he is great and original, must himself create the taste by which he is to be relished.
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We have within ourselves Enough to fill the present day with joy, And overspread the future years with hope.
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Open-mindedness is the harvest of a quiet eye.
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Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.
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Give all thou canst high Heaven rejects the lore of nicely-caluculated less or more.
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One impulse from a vernal wood
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The wealthiest man among us is the best
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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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A Briton even in love should be A subject, not a slave!
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The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an angel's wing.
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