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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
Things
Cleave
Mild
Gentle
Glory
Happiness

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The eye— it cannot choose but see we cannot bid the ear be still our bodies feel, where'er they be, against or with our will.
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Behold the Child among his new-born blisses A six years' Darling of a pigmy size! See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly-learned art.
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She gave me eyes, she gave me ears And humble cares, and delicate fears A heart, the fountain of sweet tears And love and thought and joy.
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Laying out grounds may be considered a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.
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Sweet Mercy! to the gates of heaven This minstrel lead, his sins forgiven The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour, And memory of Earth's bitter leaven Effaced forever.
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The vision and the faculty divine Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse.
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While all the future, for thy purer soul, With sober certainties of love is blest.
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Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.
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The Primrose for a veil had spread The largest of her upright leaves And thus for purposes benign, A simple flower deceives.
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What is pride? A rocket that emulates the stars.
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Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed Their snow-white blossoms on my head, With brightest sunshine round me spread Of spring's unclouded weather, In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard-seat! And birds and flowers once more to greet, My last year's friends together.
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There is a luxury in self-dispraise And inward self-disparagement affords To meditative spleen a grateful feast.
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I've watched you now a full half-hour Self-poised upon that yellow flower And, little Butterfly! Indeed I know not if you sleep or feed. How motionless! - not frozen seas More motionless! and then What joy awaits you, when the breeze Hath found you out among the trees, And calls you forth again!
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A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free.
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Thou has left behind Powers that will work for thee,-air, earth, and skies! There 's not a breathing of the common wind That will forget thee thou hast great allies Thy friends are exultations, agonies, And love, and man's unconquerable mind.
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Small service is true service, while it lasts.
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Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion.
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Hearing often-times the still, sad music of humanity, nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power to chasten and subdue.
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Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive But to be young was very heaven.
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In heaven above, And earth below, they best can serve true gladness Who meet most feelingly the calls of sadness.
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