312 ordspråk av William Wordsworth
William Wordsworth
Enough, if something from our hands have power To live, and act, and serve the future hour.
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Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!
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Every great and original writer, in proportion as he is great and original, must himself create the taste by which he is to be relished
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Faith is a passionate intuition.
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Fear is a cloak which old men huddle about their love, as if to keep it warm.
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Fears and fancies thick upon me came.
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Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
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Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
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For by superior energies; more strict affiance in each other; faith more firm in their unhallowed principles, the bad have fairly earned a victory over the weak, the vacillating, inconsistent good.
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For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity.
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For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
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For still, the more he works, the more Do his weak ankles swell.
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Four years and thirty, told this very week, Have I been now a sojourner on earth, And yet the morning gladness is not gone Which then was in my mind.
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From the body of one guilty deed a thousand ghostly fears and haunting thoughts proceed
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Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore of nicely-calculated less or more.
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