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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
Boon
Powers
Lays
Spending
Waste
Getting
Power

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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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But who would force the soul tilts with a straw Against a champion cased in adamant
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I've watched you now a full half-hour Self-poised upon that yellow flower And, little Butterfly! Indeed I know not if you sleep or feed. How motionless! - not frozen seas More motionless! and then What joy awaits you, when the breeze Hath found you out among the trees, And calls you forth again!
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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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Nor will I then thy modest grace forget, Chaste Snow-drop, venturous harbinger of Spring, And pensive monitor of fleeting years!
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The gods approve The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul.
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Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet
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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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The first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
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And he is oft the wisest manWho is not wise at all.
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A Briton even in love should be A subject, not a slave!
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Science appears but what in truth she is, Not as our glory and our absolute boast, But as a succedaneum, and a prop To our infirmity.
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The softest breeze to fairest flowers gives birth: Think not that Prudence dwells in dark abodes, She scans the future with the eye of gods.
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The eye— it cannot choose but see we cannot bid the ear be still our bodies feel, where'er they be, against or with our will.
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The tears into his eyes were brought, And thanks and praises seemed to run So fast out of his heart, I thought They never would have done. -I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning Alas! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left me mourning.
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And now I see with eye serene, The very pulse of the machine. A being breathing thoughtful breaths, A traveler between life and death.
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poetry is the breath and finer spirit of knowledge
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Departing summer hath assumed An aspect tenderly illumed, The gentlest look of spring That calls from yonder leafy shade Unfaded, yet prepared to fade, A timely carolling.
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With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars.
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Choice word and measured phrase above the reach Of ordinary men.
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