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For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity.
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
Looks
Humanity
Thoughtless
Hours
Oftentimes
Nature
Environmental
Stills
Hearing
Still
Hour
Music
Youth
Look
Environment
Humans
Learned
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Nature's old felicities.
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The intellectual power, through words and things, Went sounding on a dim and perilous way!
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A famous man is Robin Hood, The English ballad-singer's joy.
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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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The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.
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A lake carries you into recesses of feeling otherwise impenetrable.
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What is pride? A rocket that emulates the stars.
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When men change swords for ledgers, and desert The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed I had, my Country--am I to be blamed?
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The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink I heard a voice it said Drink, pretty creature, drink'
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What is good for a bootless bene? With these dark words begins my tale And their meaning is, Whence can comfort spring When prayer is of no avail?
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The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone
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Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour Have passed away less happy than the one That by the unwilling ploughshare died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love.
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Milton, thou should'st be living at this hour.
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We live by Admiration, Hope, and Love And, even as these are well and wisely fixed, In dignity of being we ascend.
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O dearer far than light and life are dear.
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The moving accident is not my trade To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.
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The monumental pomp of age Was with this goodly personage A stature undepressed in size, Unbent, which rather seemed to rise In open victory o'er the weight Of seventy years, to loftier height.
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