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Nature never did betray the heart that loved her.

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
Betrayal
Betray
Loved
Nature
Heart
Never
Love
Eco
Betrayed

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To be young was very heaven!
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Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
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Mark the babe not long accustomed to this breathing world One that hath barely learned to shape a smile, though yet irrational of soul, to grasp with tiny finger - to let fall a tear And, as the heavy cloud of sleep dissolves, To stretch his limbs, becoming, as might seem. The outward functions of intelligent man.
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The silence that is in the starry sky, / The sleep that is among the lonely hills.
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Ah, what a warning for a thoughtless man, Could field or grove, could any spot of earth, Show to his eye an image of the pangs Which it hath witnessed,-render back an echo Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod!
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Because the good old rule Sufficeth them,-the simple plan, That they should take who have the power, And they should keep who can.
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Careless of books, yet having felt the power Of Nature, by the gentle agency Of natural objects, led me on to feel For passions that were not my own, and think (At random and imperfectly indeed) On man, the heart of man, and human life.
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Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science
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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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Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher.
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Those old credulities, to Nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock Of history?
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Worse than idle is compassion if it ends in tears and sighs.
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My apprehension comes in crowds, I dread the rustling of the grass, The very shadows of the clouds, Have power to shake me as they pass, I question things and do not find, one that will answer to my mind, And all the world appears unkind.
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The intellectual power, through words and things, Went sounding on a dim and perilous way!
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Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?
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One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave.
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A multitude of causes unknown to former times are now acting with a combined force to blunt the discriminating powers of the mind, and unfitting it for all voluntary exertion to reduce it to a state of almost savage torpor.
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Golf is a day spent in a round of strenuous idleness.
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Plain living and high thinking are no more.
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar.
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