Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTHOne with more of soul in his face than words on his tongue.
More William Wordsworth Quotes
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But who is innocent? By grace divine, Not otherwise,O Nature! we are thine.
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Strongest minds are often those whom the noisy world hears least.
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The softest breeze to fairest flowers gives birth: Think not that Prudence dwells in dark abodes, She scans the future with the eye of gods.
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And now I see with eye serene, The very pulse of the machine. A being breathing thoughtful breaths, A traveler between life and death.
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The mind of man is a thousand times more beautiful than the earth on which he dwells.
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He spake of love, such love as spirits feel In worlds whose course is equable and pure; No fears to beat away, no strife to heal,- The past unsighed for, and the future sure.
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One with more of soul in his face than words on his tongue.
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Poetry is emotion recollected in tranquillity.
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My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard.
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A famous man is Robin Hood, The English ballad-singer’s joy.
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But trailing clouds of glory do we come, From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
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The ocean is a mighty harmonist.
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As high as we have mounted in delight, In our dejection do we sink as low.
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O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive!
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Chains tie us down by land and sea; And wishes, vain as mine, may be All that is left to comfort thee.
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To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
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What we have loved Others will love And we will teach them how.
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Delight and liberty, the simple creed of childhood.
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I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o’er vales and hills When all at once I saw a crowd A host of golden daffodils Beside the lake beneath the trees Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
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That inward eye/ Which is the bliss of solitude.
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Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.
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How does the Meadow flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free down to its root, and in that freedom bold.
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Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
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But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.
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Shalt show us how divine a thing A woman may be made.
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Prompt to move but firm to wait – knowing things rashly sought are rarely found.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH