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But an old age serene and bright, and lovely as a Lapland night, shall lead thee to thy grave.
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
Night
Bright
Time
Aging
Love
Lovely
Thee
Lapland
Lead
Serene
Quiet
Grave
Shall
Birthday
Age
Graves
More quotes by William Wordsworth
in the mind of man, A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things.
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The stars of midnight shall be dear To her and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face.
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Every gift of noble origin Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath.
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Scorn not the sonnet. Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart.
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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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Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither.
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The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone
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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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Heaven lies about us in our infancy.
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We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted.
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But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.
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In ourselves our safety must be sought. By our own right hand it must be wrought.
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How fast has brother followed brother, From sunshine to the sunless land!
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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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Nature never did betray the heart that loved her.
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In spite of difference of soil and climate, of language and manners, of laws and customs-in spite of things silently gone out of mind, and things violently destroyed, the Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society, as it is spread over the whole earth, and over all time.
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Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill The Ploughboy is whooping — anon — anon! There's joy in the mountains: There's life in the fountains Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing The rain is over and gone.
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What we have loved Others will love And we will teach them how.
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Death is the quiet haven of us all.
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Come grow old with me. The best is yet to be.
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