Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room; And hermits are contented with their cells.
More Quotes from William Wordsworth:
The grim shape; Towered up between me and the stars, and still, For so it seemed, with purpose of its own; And measured motion like a living thing, Strode after me.William Wordsworth
That mighty orb of song, The divine Milton.
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The brook and road; Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy strait.
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A genial hearth, a hospitable board, and a refined rusticity.
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The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an angel's wing.
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Scorn not the sonnet. Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart.
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