The Poetical Works of William Wordsworth, Volume 4

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Page 256 - Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow.
Page 245 - He is retired as noontide dew, Or fountain in a noon-day grove; And you must love him, ere to you He will seem worthy of your love.
Page 231 - Nor less I deem that there are Powers Which of themselves our minds impress; That we can feed this mind of ours In a wise passiveness.
Page 232 - How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it. And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! He, too, is no mean preacher: Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your teacher.
Page 234 - tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes. The birds around me hopped and played : Their thoughts I cannot measure : — But the least motion which they made, It seemed a thrill of pleasure. The budding twigs spread out their fan, To catch the breezy air ; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there.
Page 256 - Blessings be with them — and eternal praise, Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares—- The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays ! Oh ! might my name be numbered among theirs, Then gladly would I end my mortal days.
Page 4 - It destroys likewise magnanimity, and the raising of human nature: for take an example of a dog, and mark what a generosity and courage he will put on, when he finds himself maintained by a man; who to him is instead of a God, or melior natura: which courage is manifestly such, as that creature, without that confidence of a better nature than his own, could never attain. So man, when he resteth and assureth himself upon divine protection and favor, gathereth a force and faith, which human nature...
Page 233 - To her fair works did nature link The human soul that through me ran ; And much it griev'd my heart to think What man has made of man.
Page 319 - So fair, so sweet, withal so sensitive, Would that the little Flowers were born to live, Conscious of half the pleasure which they give ; That to this mountain-daisy's self were known The beauty of its star-shaped shadow, thrown On the smooth surface of this naked stone...
Page 264 - Nor shout nor whistle strikes his ear;< — What is the creature doing here? It was a cove, a huge recess, That keeps till June December's snow-; A lofty precipice in front, A silent tarn...

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