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Wisdom is oftentimes nearer when we stoop than when we soar.

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
Wisdom
Stoops
Oftentimes
Nearer
Soar
Weed
Positive
Grace
Inspiration
Stoop

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Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher.
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One solace yet remains for us who came Into this world in days when story lacked Severe research, that in our hearts we know How, for exciting youth's heroic flame, Assent is power, belief the soul of fact.
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And you must love him, ere to you He will seem worthy of your love.
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In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease and, of its joy secure, The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, And on the vacant air.
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That inward eye/ Which is the bliss of solitude.
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In ourselves our safety must be sought. By our own right hand it must be wrought.
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Poetry has never brought me in enough money to buy shoestrings.
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These hoards of wealth you can unlock at will.
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She seemed a thing that could not feel the touch of earthly years.
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The Poet, gentle creature as he is, Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times His fits when he is neither sick nor well, Though no distress be near him but his own Unmanageable thoughts.
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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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Careless of books, yet having felt the power Of Nature, by the gentle agency Of natural objects, led me on to feel For passions that were not my own, and think (At random and imperfectly indeed) On man, the heart of man, and human life.
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In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard seat And birds and flowers once more to greet. . . .
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Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close upon the growing boy.
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Imagination, which in truth Is but another name for absolute power And clearest insight, amplitude of mind, And reason, in her most exalted mood.
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Bright flower! whose home is everywhere Bold in maternal nature's care And all the long year through the heir Of joy or sorrow, Methinks that there abides in thee Some concord with humanity, Given to no other flower I see The forest through.
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Stop thinking for once in your life!
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the Mind of Man-- My haunt, and the main region of my song.
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Turning, for them who pass, the common dust Of servile opportunity to gold.
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On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, Musing is solitude
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