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I'm not talking about a show me other walls of this thing button, I mean a stumble button for wallbase.
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
Walls
Wall
Talking
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Stumble
Thing
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More quotes by William Wordsworth
The wealthiest man among us is the best
William Wordsworth
Imagination is the means of deep insight and sympathy, the power to conceive and express images removed from normal objective reality.
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It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the sea: Listen! the mighty being is awake, And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thundereverlastingly.
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Nature never did betray the heart that loved her.
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Faith is a passionate intuition.
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The unconquerable pang of despised love.
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A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays And confident tomorrows.
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The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone
William Wordsworth
Dreams, books, are each a world.
William Wordsworth
Laying out grounds... may be considered as a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.... it is to assist Nature in moving the affections... the affections of those who have the deepest perception of the beauty of Nature.
William Wordsworth
One in whom persuasion and belief Had ripened into faith, and faith become A passionate intuition.
William Wordsworth
From the body of one guilty deed a thousand ghostly fears and haunting thoughts proceed.
William Wordsworth
I should dread to disfigure the beautiful ideal of the memories of illustrious persons with incongruous features, and to sully the imaginative purity of classical works with gross and trivial recollections.
William Wordsworth
Lady of the Mere, Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.
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Death is the quiet haven of us all.
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Delight and liberty, the simple creed of childhood.
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Milton, thou should'st be living at this hour.
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The stars of midnight shall be dear To her and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face.
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The silence that is in the starry sky, / The sleep that is among the lonely hills.
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And I am happy when I sing.
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