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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
High
Rapine
Living
Idolatry
Thinking
Avarice
Expense
Idols
Adore
Expenses
Plain

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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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But who shall parcel out His intellect by geometric rules, Split like a province into round and square?
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Delivered from the galling yoke of time.
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Give all thou canst high Heaven rejects the lore of nicely-caluculated less or more.
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Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science
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Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns.
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To the solid ground Of nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye.
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Stern daughter of the voice of God! O Duty! if that name thou love Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring and reprove.
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Laying out grounds... may be considered as a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.... it is to assist Nature in moving the affections... the affections of those who have the deepest perception of the beauty of Nature.
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A lawyer art thou? Draw not nigh! Go, carry to some fitter place The keenness of that practised eye, The hardness of that sallow face.
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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 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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Every gift of noble origin Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath.
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I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, wherever nature led.
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A lake carries you into recesses of feeling otherwise impenetrable.
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But an old age serene and bright, and lovely as a Lapland night, shall lead thee to thy grave.
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One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave.
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Stay, little cheerful Robin! stay, And at my casement sing, Though it should prove a farewell lay And this our parting spring. * * * * * Then, little Bird, this boon confer, Come, and my requiem sing, Nor fail to be the harbinger Of everlasting spring.
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