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Life is divided into three terms - that which was, which is, and which will be. Let us learn from the past to profit by the present, and from the present, to live better in the future.

William Wordsworth

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William Wordsworth
Age: 80 †
Born: 1770
Born: April 7
Died: 1850
Died: April 23
Lyricist
Poet
Cockermouth
Cumbria
Wordsworth
Term
Future
Learn
Three
Past
Divided
Better
Profit
Live
Terms
Life
Present

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And when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet whence he blew Soul-animating strains,-alas! too few.
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A youth to whom was given So much of earth, so much of heaven.
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O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive!
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Where the statue stood Of Newton, with his prism and silent face, The marble index of a mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of thought alone.
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By all means sometimes be alone salute thyself see what thy soul doth wear dare to look in thy chest and tumble up and down what thou findest there.
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The world is too much with us late and soon, getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours.
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To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
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And you must love him, ere to you He will seem worthy of your love.
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Earth has not anything to show more fair.
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As in the eye of Nature he has lived, So in the eye of Nature let him die!
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Imagination is the means of deep insight and sympathy, the power to conceive and express images removed from normal objective reality.
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A lake carries you into recesses of feeling otherwise impenetrable.
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Either still I find Some imperfection in the chosen theme, Or see of absolute accomplishment Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself, That I recoil and droop, and seek repose In listlessness from vain perplexity, Unprofitably travelling towards the grave.
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Then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils.
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Plain living and high thinking are no more. The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone our peace, our fearful innocence, And pure religion breathing household laws.
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Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.
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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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one daffodil is worth a thousand pleasures, then one is too few.
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Poetry is emotion recollected in tranquillity.
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Hope smiled when your nativity was cast, Children of Summer!
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