Great poetry of William Wordsworth
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Poem by William Wordsworth

Not in the lucid intervals of life

That come but as a curse to party-strife;

Not in some hour when Pleasure with a sigh

Of languor puts his rosy garland by;

Not in the breathing-times of that poor slave

Who daily piles up wealth in Mammon’s cave

Is Nature felt, or can be; nor do words,

Which practiced talent readily affords,

Prove that her hand has touched responsive chords;

Nor has her gentle beauty power to move

With genuine rapture and with fervent love

The soul of Genius, if he dare to take

Life’s rule from passion craved for passion’s sake;

Untaught that meekness is the cherished bent

Of all the truly great and all the innocent.

But who is innocent? By grace divine,

Not otherwise, O Nature! we are thine,

Through good and evil thine, in just degree

Of rational and manly sympathy.

To all that Earth from pensive hearts is stealing,

And Heaven is now to gladdened eyes revealing,

Add every charm the Universe can show

Through every change its aspects undergo

Care may be respited, but not repealed;

No perfect cure grows on that bounded field.

Vain is the pleasure, a false calm the peace,

If He, through whom alone our conflicts cease,

Our virtuous hopes without relapse advance,

Come not to speed the Soul’s deliverance;

To the distempered Intellect refuse

His gracious help, or give what we abuse.

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