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My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began So is it now I am a 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
Heart
Men
Life
Leaps
Behold
Rainbow
Leap
Began
Sky

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That blessed mood in which the burthen of the mystery, in which the heavy and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world is lightened.
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O dearer far than light and life are dear.
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Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn
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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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There's something in a flying horse, There's something in a huge balloon.
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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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Oh, be wise, Thou! Instructed that true knowledge leads to love.
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The flower that smells the sweetest is shy and lowly.
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Like thoughts whose very sweetness yielded proof that they were born for immortality.
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Before us lay a painful road, And guidance have I sought in duteous love From Wisdom's heavenly Father. Hence hath flowed Patience, with trust that, whatsoe'er the way Each takes in this high matter, all may move Cheered with the prospect of a brighter day.
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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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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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Poetry is the outcome of emotions recollected in tranquility.
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Laying out grounds may be considered a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.
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I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough, along the mountain-side. By our own spirits we are deified We Poets in our youth begin in gladness, But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
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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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Wrongs unredressed, or insults unavenged.
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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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How many undervalue the power of simplicity ! But it is the real key to the heart.
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But to a higher mark than song can reach, Rose this pure eloquence.
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