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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
Soar
Weed
Positive
Grace
Inspiration
Stoop
Wisdom
Stoops
Oftentimes
Nearer

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Worse than idle is compassion if it ends in tears and sighs.
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O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive!
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Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will Dear God! the very houses seem asleep And all that mighty heart is lying still!
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The Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose.
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The ocean is a mighty harmonist.
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We live by Admiration, Hope, and Love And, even as these are well and wisely fixed, In dignity of being we ascend.
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But who is innocent? By grace divine, Not otherwise,O Nature! we are thine.
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Sweet childish days, that were as long, As twenty days are now.
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Be mild, and cleave to gentle things, thy glory and thy happiness be there.
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Like thoughts whose very sweetness yielded proof that they were born for immortality.
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Thou unassuming common-place of Nature, with that homely face.
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my brain Worked with a dim and undetermined sense Of unknown modes of being o'er my thoughts There hung a darkness, call it solitude Or blank desertion.
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There is a luxury in self-dispraise And inward self-disparagement affords To meditative spleen a grateful feast.
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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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Not Chaos, not the darkest pit of lowest Erebus, nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out by help of dreams - can breed such fear and awe as fall upon us often when we look into our Minds, into the Mind of Man.
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My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began So is it now I am a man So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! The Child is father of the Man I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
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Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay, And could not win thee, Sleep, by any stealth: So do not let me wear to-night away. Without thee what is all the morning's wealth? Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
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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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Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none / Look up a second time, and, one by one, / You mark them twinkling out with silvery light, / And wonder how they could elude the sight!
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When men change swords for ledgers, and desert The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed I had, my Country--am I to be blamed?
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