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A multitude of causes unknown to former times are now acting with a combined force to blunt the discriminating powers of the mind, and unfitting it for all voluntary exertion to reduce it to a state of almost savage torpor.

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
Times
Unknown
Voluntary
Force
Powers
Blunt
States
Former
Multitude
Mind
Stupid
Savage
Causes
Combined
Torpor
Almost
Multitudes
Discriminating
State
Savages
Modernism
Acting
Reduce
Exertion

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And the most difficult of tasks to keep Heights which the soul is competent to gain.
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Either still I find Some imperfection in the chosen theme, Or see of absolute accomplishment Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself, That I recoil and droop, and seek repose In listlessness from vain perplexity, Unprofitably travelling towards the grave.
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A simple child. That lightly draws its breath. And feels its life in every limb. What should it know of death?
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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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Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher.
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Thou unassuming common-place of Nature, with that homely face.
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Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
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The Primrose for a veil had spread The largest of her upright leaves And thus for purposes benign, A simple flower deceives.
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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.
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Often have I sighed to measure By myself a lonely pleasure,- Sighed to think I read a book, Only read, perhaps, by me.
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Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And, even with something of a mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster child, her inmate man, Forget the glories he hath known And that imperial palace whence he came.
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The soft blue sky did never melt Into his heart he never felt The witchery of the soft blue sky!
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Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.
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Nor will I then thy modest grace forget, Chaste Snow-drop, venturous harbinger of Spring, And pensive monitor of fleeting years!
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There is a comfort in the strength of love 'Twill make a thing endurable, which else would overset the brain, or break the heart.
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Poetry is the outcome of emotions recollected in tranquility.
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Where the statue stood Of Newton, with his prism and silent face, The marble index of a mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of thought alone.
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Strongest minds are often those whom the noisy world hears least.
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