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When from our better selves we have too long been parted by the hurrying world, and droop. Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, how gracious, how benign is solitude.

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
World
Solitude
Tired
Droop
Sick
Parted
Pleasure
Hurrying
Business
Benign
Better
Selves
Self
Gracious
Long
Pleasures

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Now when the primrose makes a splendid show, And lilies face the March-winds in full blow, And humbler growths as moved with one desire Put on, to welcome spring, their best attire, Poor Robin is yet flowerless but how gay With his red stalks upon this sunny day!
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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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Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.
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The streams with softest sound are flowing, The grass you almost hear it growing, You hear it now, if e'er you can.
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The child is father of the man.
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A genial hearth, a hospitable board, and a refined rusticity.
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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 oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.
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In ourselves our safety must be sought. By our own right hand it must be wrought.
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The unconquerable pang of despised love.
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Thou unassuming common-place of Nature, with that homely face.
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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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...one interior life in which all beings live with God, themselves are God, existing in the mighty whole, indistinguishable as the cloudless east is from the cloudless west, when all the hemisphere is one cerulean blue.
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Since thy return, through days and weeks Of hope that grew by stealth, How many wan and faded cheeks Have kindled into health! The Old, by thee revived, have said, 'Another year is ours' And wayworn Wanderers, poorly fed, Have smiled upon thy flowers.
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