William Wordsworth Quotes
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Heaven lies about us in our infancy.
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Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade Of that which once was great is passed away.
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But He is risen, a later star of dawn.
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Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet
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Mark the babe not long accustomed to this breathing world; One that hath barely learned to shape a smile, though yet irrational of soul, to grasp with tiny finger - to let fall a tear; And, as the heavy cloud of sleep dissolves, To stretch his limbs, becoming, as might seem. The outward functions of intelligent man.
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By happy chance we saw A twofold image: on a grassy bank A snow-white ram, and in the crystal flood Another and the same!
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Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?
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As in the eye of Nature he has lived, So in the eye of Nature let him die!
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There is a luxury in self-dispraise; And inward self-disparagement affords To meditative spleen a grateful feast.
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Of friends, however humble, scorn not one.
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Habit rules the unreflecting herd.
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In years that bring the philosophic mind.
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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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Let Nature be your teacher
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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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Often have I sighed to measure By myself a lonely pleasure,- Sighed to think I read a book, Only read, perhaps, by me.
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I have felt a presence that disturbs me with the joy of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime of something far more deeply interfused, whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, and the round ocean, and the living air, and the blue sky, and in the mind of man.
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one daffodil is worth a thousand pleasures, then one is too few.
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To be young was very heaven!
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As generations come and go, Their arts, their customs, ebb and flow; Fate, fortune, sweep strong powers away, And feeble, of themselves, decay.
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And mighty poets in their misery dead.
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And when the stream Which overflowed the soul was passed away, A consciousness remained that it had left Deposited upon the silent shore Of memory images and precious thoughts That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed.
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The child is the father of man.
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When his veering gait And every motion of his starry train Seem governed by a strain Of music, audible to him alone.
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The mind that is wise mourns less for what age takes away; than what it leaves behind.
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With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars.
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The clouds that gather round the setting sun do take a sober colouring from an eye that hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, to me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
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Plain living and high thinking are no more. The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence, And pure religion breathing household laws.
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Neither evil tongues, rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all the dreary intercourse of daily life, shall ever prevail against us.
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How is it that you live, and what is it you do?
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