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The child is father of the man.

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
Tears
Child
Father
Children
Men
Oxymoron

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the Mind of Man-- My haunt, and the main region of my song.
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Memories... images and precious thoughts that shall not die and cannot be destroyed.
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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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A tale in everything.
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The moving accident is not my trade To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.
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Happier of happy though I be, like them I cannot take possession of the sky, mount with a thoughtless impulse, and wheel there, one of a mighty multitude whose way and motion is a harmony and dance magnificent.
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Rest and be thankful.
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There's something in a flying horse, There's something in a huge balloon.
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Fear is a cloak which old men huddle about their love, as if to keep it warm.
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That though the radiance which was once so bright be now forever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, glory in the flower. We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
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She seemed a thing that could not feel the touch of earthly years.
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Milton, thou should'st be living at this hour.
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Society became my glittering bride, And airy hopes my children.
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Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters.
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A cheerful life is what the Muses love. A soaring spirit is their prime delight.
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A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light
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Poetry is the outcome of emotions recollected in tranquility.
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He who feels contempt for any living thing hath faculties that he hath never used, and thought with him is in its infancy.
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Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray.
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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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