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The world is too much with us late and soon, getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours.

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
Getting
Boon
Nature
Powers
Littles
Lays
Little
Spending
Much
Waste
World
Soon
Late
Environment

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Delight and liberty, the simple creed of childhood.
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And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.
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Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher.
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But who, if he be called upon to face Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined Great issues, good or bad for humankind, Is happy as a lover.
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I am already kindly disposed towards you. My friendship it is not in my power to give: this is a gift which no man can make, it is not in our own power: a sound and healthy friendship is the growth of time and circumstance, it will spring up and thrive like a wildflower when these favour, and when they do not, it is in vain to look for it.
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Pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.
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But who shall parcel out His intellect by geometric rules, Split like a province into round and square?
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All men feel a habitual gratitude, and something of an honorable bigotry, for the objects which have long continued to please them.
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Rapt into still communion that transcends The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, His mind was a thanksgiving to the power That made him it was blessedness and love!
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Then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils.
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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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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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The wind, a sightless laborer, whistles at his task.
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Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee! . . . . . . Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart: So didst thou travel on life's common way In cheerful godliness.
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Oh for a single hour of that Dundee Who on that day the word of onset gave!
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Wisdom and spirit of the Universe!
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For mightier far Than strength of nerve or sinew, or the sway Of magic potent over sun and star, Is love, though oft to agony distrest, And though his favourite be feeble woman's breast.
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A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
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Meek Walton's heavenly memory.
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Nature never did betray the heart that loved her.
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