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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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Life is divided into three terms - that which was, which is, and which will be. Let us learn from the past to profit by the present, and from the present, to live better in the future.
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Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay, And could not win thee, Sleep, by any stealth: So do not let me wear to-night away. Without thee what is all the morning's wealth? Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
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I look for ghosts but none will force Their way to me. 'Tis falsely said That there was ever intercourse Between the living and the dead.
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Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.
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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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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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And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore.
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There is creation in the eye.
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Let beeves and home-bred kine partake The sweets of Burn-mill meadow The swan on still St. Mary's Lake Float double, swan and shadow!
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The unconquerable pang of despised love.
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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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Death is the quiet haven of us all.
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When men change swords for ledgers, and desert The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed I had, my Country--am I to be blamed?
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Primroses, the Spring may love them Summer knows but little of them.
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The memory of the just survives in Heaven.
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Oh, blank confusion! true epitome Of what the mighty City is herself, To thousands upon thousands of her sons, Living amid the same perpetual whirl Of trivial objects, melted and reduced To one identity.
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We live by admiration, hope and love.
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The sunshine is a glorious birth But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.
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To the solid ground Of nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye.
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Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.
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