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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
Selves
Better
Self
Gracious
Long
Pleasures
World
Solitude
Droop
Tired
Parted
Sick
Hurrying
Pleasure
Benign
Business
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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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Stop thinking for once in your life!
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Thou unassuming common-place of Nature, with that homely face.
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In modern business it is not the crook who is to be feared most, it is the honest man who doesn't know what he is doing.
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... and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
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Dreams, books, are each a world.
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Heaven lies about us in our infancy.
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A babe, by intercourse of touch I held mute dialogues with my Mother's heart.
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Wisdom and Spirit of the universe! Thou soul, that art the eternity of thought, And giv'st to forms and images a breath And everlasting motion.
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We bow our heads before Thee, and we laud, And magnify thy name Almighty God! But man is thy most awful instrument, In working out a pure intent.
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For oft, when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood they flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude
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'T is hers to pluck the amaranthine flower Of faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower, And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.
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I travelled among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea Nor England! did I know till then What love I bore to thee.
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Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there In happier beauty more pellucid streams, An ampler ether, a diviner air, And fields invested with purpureal gleams.
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Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher.
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Lady of the Mere, Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.
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Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain That has been, and may be again.
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Milton, thou should'st be living at this hour.
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And what if thou, sweet May, hast known Mishap by worm and blight If expectations newly blown Have perished in thy sight If loves and joys, while up they sprung, Were caught as in a snare Such is the lot of all the young, However bright and fair.
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