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The human mind is capable of excitement without the application of gross and violent stimulants and he must have a very faint perception of its beauty and dignity who does not know this.
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
Must
Perception
Mind
Dignity
Capable
Stimulants
Beauty
Faint
Doe
Gross
Human
Application
Humans
Excitement
Without
Violent
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Faith is a passionate intuition.
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... and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
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O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?
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Babylon, Learned and wise, hath perished utterly, Nor leaves her speech one word to aid the sigh That would lament her.
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Before us lay a painful road, And guidance have I sought in duteous love From Wisdom's heavenly Father. Hence hath flowed Patience, with trust that, whatsoe'er the way Each takes in this high matter, all may move Cheered with the prospect of a brighter day.
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one daffodil is worth a thousand pleasures, then one is too few.
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With little here to do or see Of things that in the great world be, Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee For thou art worthy, Thou unassuming commonplace Of Nature, with that homely face, And yet with something of a grace Which love makes for thee!
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Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher.
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Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.
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the Mind of Man-- My haunt, and the main region of my song.
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Alas! how little can a moment show Of an eye where feeling plays In ten thousand dewy rays: A face o'er which a thousand shadows go!
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A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard... Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.
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The first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
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Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind--But how could I forget thee?
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Action is transitory, a step, a blow, The motion of a muscle, this way or that, 'Tis done--And in the after-vacancy, We wonder at ourselves, like men betrayed.
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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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Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
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Golf is a day spent in a round of strenuous idleness.
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Up! up! my friend, and quit your books, Or surely you 'll grow double! Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks! Why all this toil and trouble?
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Come grow old with me. The best is yet to be.
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