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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
Love
Eco
Betrayed
Betrayal
Betray
Loved
Nature
Heart
Never

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Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain That has been, and may be again.
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Sweet is the lore which Nature brings Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect. Enough of Science and of Art Close up these barren leaves Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives.
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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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A Briton even in love should be A subject, not a slave!
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The clouds that gather round the setting sun, Do take a sober colouring from an eye, That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality.
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In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease and, of its joy secure, The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, And on the vacant air.
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Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares!- The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays.
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Heaven lies about us in our infancy.
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Neither evil tongues, rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all the dreary intercourse of daily life, shall ever prevail against us.
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Shalt show us how divine a thing A woman may be made.
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Delight and liberty, the simple creed of childhood.
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While all the future, for thy purer soul, With sober certainties of love is blest.
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A tale in everything.
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Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows Like harmony in music there is a dark Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles Discordant elements, makes them cling together In one society.
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But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.
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Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.
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Wild is the music of autumnal winds Amongst the faded woods.
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The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone
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poetry is the breath and finer spirit of knowledge
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And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.
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