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Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain That has been, and may be again.
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William Wordsworth |
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To be a Prodigal's favourite,--then, worse truth, A Miser's pensioner,--behold our lot!
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William Wordsworth |
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Maidens withering on the stalk.
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William Wordsworth |
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Sweetest melodies Are those that are by distance made more sweet.
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William Wordsworth |
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The gentle Lady married to the Moor, And heavenly Una with her milk-white lamb.
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William Wordsworth |
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A power is passing from the earth.
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William Wordsworth |
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Earth helped him with the cry of blood.
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William Wordsworth |
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Turning, for them who pass, the common dust Of servile opportunity to gold.
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William Wordsworth |
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To the solid ground Of Nature trusts the mind that builds for aye.
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William Wordsworth |
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Soft is the music that would charm forever; The flower of sweetest smell is shy and lowly.
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William Wordsworth |
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A Briton even in love should be A subject, not a slave!
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William Wordsworth |
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But he is risen, a later star of dawn.
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William Wordsworth |
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Bright gem instinct with music, vocal spark.
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William Wordsworth |
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Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound.
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William Wordsworth |
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The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.
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William Wordsworth |
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Nature's old felicities.
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William Wordsworth |
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How fast has brother followed brother, From sunshine to the sunless land!
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William Wordsworth |