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Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.

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
Waste
Getting
Power
Boon
Powers
Lays
Spending

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The harvest of a quiet eye, That broods and sleeps on his own heart.
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And suddenly all your troubles melt away, all your worries are gone, and it is for no reason other than the look in your partner's eyes. Yes, sometimes life and love really is that simple.
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A deep distress has humanised my soul.
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What is pride? A rocket that emulates the stars.
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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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She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.
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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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In modern business it is not the crook who is to be feared most, it is the honest man who doesn't know what he is doing.
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Tis said, fantastic ocean doth enfold The likeness of whate'er on land is seen.
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One impulse from a vernal wood
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Mark the babe not long accustomed to this breathing world One that hath barely learned to shape a smile, though yet irrational of soul, to grasp with tiny finger - to let fall a tear And, as the heavy cloud of sleep dissolves, To stretch his limbs, becoming, as might seem. The outward functions of intelligent man.
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Let the moon shine on the in thy solitary walk and let the misty mountain-winds be free to blow against thee.
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Prompt to move but firm to wait - knowing things rashly sought are rarely found.
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The first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
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The light that never was, on sea or land The consecration, and the Poet's dream.
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The daisy, by the shadow that it casts, Protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun.
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Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.
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Those old credulities, to Nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock Of history?
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The mysteries that cups of flowers infold And all the gorgeous sights which fairies do behold.
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Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.
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