312 ordspråk av William Wordsworth
William Wordsworth
Pictures deface walls more often than they decorate them.
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Plain living and high thinking are no more: The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone.
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Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene, The work of Fancy, or some happy tone Of meditation, slipping in between The beauty coming and the beauty gone.
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Pleasures newly found are sweet/ When they lie about our feet.
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Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion
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Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge; it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science.
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Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility
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Provoke/ The years to bring the inevitable yoke.
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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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Rapt into still communion that transcends/ The imperfect offices of prayer and praise.
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Rest and be thankful.
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Science appears but what in truth she is,/ Not as our glory and our absolute boast,/ But as a succedaneum, and a prop/ To our infirmity.
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Sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart.
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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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She gave me eyes, she gave me ears; And humble cares, and delicate fears; A heart, the fountain of sweet tears; And love and thought and joy.
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