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Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry and these we adore Plain living and high thinking are no more.
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
Living
Idolatry
Thinking
Avarice
Expense
Idols
Adore
Expenses
Plain
High
Rapine
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Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there In happier beauty more pellucid streams, An ampler ether, a diviner air, And fields invested with purpureal gleams.
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A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by One after one the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky - I've thought of all by turns, and still I lie Sleepless.
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While all the future, for thy purer soul, With sober certainties of love is blest.
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Me this uncharted freedom tires I feel the weight of chance desires, My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same.
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Wisdom married to immortal verse.
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This solitary Tree! a living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay Of form and aspect too magnificent To be destroyed.
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Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.
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The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.
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Thought and theory must precede all action, that moves to salutary purposes. Yet action is nobler in itself than either thought or theory.
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Bright was the summer's noon when quickening steps Followed each other till a dreary moor Was crossed, a bare ridge clomb, upon whose top Standing alone, as from a rampart's edge, I overlooked the bed of Windermere, Like a vast river, stretching in the sun.
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Sweet is the lore which Nature brings Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect. Enough of Science and of Art Close up these barren leaves Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives.
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Love betters what is best
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Write to me frequently & the longest letters possible never mind whether you have facts or no to communicate fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
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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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Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretch'd in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
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Meek Nature's evening comment on the shows That for oblivion take their daily birth From all the fuming vanities of earth.
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Every great and original writer, in proportion as he is great and original, must himself create the taste by which he is to be relished.
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Earth has not anything to show more fair.
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The budding rose above the rose full blown.
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The wealthiest man among us is the best
William Wordsworth
