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The mind of man is a thousand times more beautiful than the earth on which he dwells.
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The child is father of the man: And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
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A brotherhood of venerable trees.
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Pleasures newly found are sweet When they lie about our feet.
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.
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Far from the world I walk, and from all care.
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O Reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle Reader! you would find A tale in everything.
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Let the moon shine on the in thy solitary walk; and let the misty mountain-winds be free to blow against thee.
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Hearing often-times the still, sad music of humanity, nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power to chasten and subdue.
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Delight and liberty, the simple creed of childhood.
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The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion; the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, An appetite; a feeling and a love that had no need of a remoter charm by thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.
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Rest and be thankful.
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Type of the wise who soar but never roam, True to the kindred points of heaven and home.
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Stern Winter loves a dirge – like sound.
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Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
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The child shall become father to the man.
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We have within ourselves Enough to fill the present day with joy, And overspread the future years with hope.
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My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard.
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She was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight, A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair, Like twilights too her dusky hair, But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn.
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A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light
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On a fair prospect some have looked, And felt, as I have heard them say, As if the moving time had been A thing as steadfast as the scene On which they gazed themselves away.
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A Briton even in love should be A subject, not a slave!
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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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[Mathematics] is an independent world created out of pure intelligence.