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Be mild, and cleave to gentle things, thy glory and thy happiness be there.

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
Gentle
Glory
Happiness
Things
Cleave
Mild

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Sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart.
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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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Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.
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As generations come and go, Their arts, their customs, ebb and flow Fate, fortune, sweep strong powers away, And feeble, of themselves, decay.
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Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
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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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Babylon, Learned and wise, hath perished utterly, Nor leaves her speech one word to aid the sigh That would lament her.
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A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays And confident tomorrows.
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Yet sometimes, when the secret cup Of still and serious thought went round, It seemed as if he drank it up, He felt with spirit so profound.
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As thou these ashes, little brook, wilt bear Into the Avon, Avon to the tide Of Severn, Severn to the narrow seas, Into main ocean they, this deed accursed An emblem yields to friends and enemies How the bold teacher's doctrine, sanctified By truth, shall spread, throughout the world dispersed.
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my brain Worked with a dim and undetermined sense Of unknown modes of being o'er my thoughts There hung a darkness, call it solitude Or blank desertion.
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Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep/ Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind.
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But trailing clouds of glory do we come, From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy!.
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Yet tears to human suffering are due And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown Are mourned by man, and not by man alone.
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Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence.
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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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The wind, a sightless laborer, whistles at his task.
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If thou art beautiful, and youth and thought endue thee with all truth-be strong--be worthy of the grace of God.
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Enough, if something from our hands have power To live, and act, and serve the future hour And if, as toward the silent tomb we go, Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, We feel that we are greater than we know.
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That kill the bloom before its time, And blanch, without the owner's crime, The most resplendent hair.
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