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It is the 1st mild day of March. Each minute sweeter than before... there is a blessing in the air.
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
March
Minute
Blessing
Air
Minutes
Sweeter
Mild
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The very flowers are sacred to the poor.
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For oft, when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood they flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude
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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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Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry and these we adore Plain living and high thinking are no more.
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And suddenly all your troubles melt away, all your worries are gone, and it is for no reason other than the look in your partner's eyes. Yes, sometimes life and love really is that simple.
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She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.
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in the mind of man, A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things.
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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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Because the good old rule Sufficeth them,-the simple plan, That they should take who have the power, And they should keep who can.
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Nor less I deem that there are Powers Which of themselves our minds impress That we can feed this mind of ours In a wise passiveness
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Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.
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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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I'll teach my boy the sweetest things I'll teach him how the owlet sings.
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And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.
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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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Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect
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Bright was the summer's noon when quickening steps Followed each other till a dreary moor Was crossed, a bare ridge clomb, upon whose top Standing alone, as from a rampart's edge, I overlooked the bed of Windermere, Like a vast river, stretching in the sun.
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Write to me frequently & the longest letters possible never mind whether you have facts or no to communicate fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
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A cheerful life is what the Muses love. A soaring spirit is their prime delight.
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We Poets in our youth begin in gladness But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
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