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What is pride? A rocket that emulates the stars.

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
Rocket
Emulate
Rockets
Pride
Stars

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We have within ourselves Enough to fill the present day with joy, And overspread the future years with hope.
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The best of what we do and are, Just God, forgive!
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Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound.
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The Eagle, he was lord above
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Oft on the dappled turf at ease I sit, and play with similes, Loose type of things through all degrees.
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Of friends, however humble, scorn not one.
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Poetry is emotion recollected in tranquillity.
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For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity.
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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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We must be free or die, who speak the tongue That Shakespeare spake the faith and morals hold Which Milton held.
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Nor less I deem that there are Powers Which of themselves our minds impress That we can feed this mind of ours In a wise passiveness
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Imagination is the means of deep insight and sympathy, the power to conceive and express images removed from normal objective reality.
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When from our better selves we have too long been parted by the hurrying world, and droop. Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, how gracious, how benign is solitude.
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True beauty dwells in deep retreats, Whose veil is unremoved Till heart with heart in concord beats, And the lover is beloved.
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But who would force the soul tilts with a straw Against a champion cased in adamant
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Free as a bird to settle where I will.
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He spake of love, such love as spirits feel In worlds whose course is equable and pure No fears to beat away, no strife to heal,- The past unsighed for, and the future sure.
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Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will Dear God! the very houses seem asleep And all that mighty heart is lying still!
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She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be But she is in her grave, and oh The difference to me!
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