312 ordspråk av William Wordsworth
William Wordsworth
An unexampled voice of awful memory.
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And 'tis my faith, that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.
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And doth, with his eternal motion make A sound like thunder - everlasting
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And he is oft the wisest man Who is not wise at all.
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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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And mighty poets in their misery dead.
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And much it grieved my heart to think What Man has made of Man.
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And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine.
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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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And so the grandeur of the Forest-tree
Comes not by casting in a formal mould, But from its own divine vitality.
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And that unless above himself he can Erect himself, how poor a thing is man.
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And the most difficult of tasks to keep Heights which the soul is competent to gain.
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And yet not choice but habit rules the unreflecting herd.
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And you must love him, ere to you He will seem worthy of your love.
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And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw.
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