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Dreams, books, are each a world and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow.

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
World
Blood
Pastime
Grows
Substantial
Books
Round
Happiness
Rounds
Strong
Flesh
Dream
Dreams
Book
Pure
Good
Grow
Tendrils

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Stay, little cheerful Robin! stay, And at my casement sing, Though it should prove a farewell lay And this our parting spring. * * * * * Then, little Bird, this boon confer, Come, and my requiem sing, Nor fail to be the harbinger Of everlasting spring.
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Rest and be thankful.
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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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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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The primal duties shine aloft, like stars The charities that soothe, and heal, and bless, Are scattered at the feet of Man, like flowers.
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For by superior energies more strict affiance in each other faith more firm in their unhallowed principles, the bad have fairly earned a victory over the weak, the vacillating, inconsistent good.
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For youthful faults ripe virtues shall atone.
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Faith is, necessary to explain anything, and to reconcile the foreknowledge of God with human evil.
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Truth takes no account of centuries.
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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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A tale in everything.
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Lady of the Mere, Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.
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But He is risen, a later star of dawn.
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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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Prompt to move but firm to wait - knowing things rashly sought are rarely found.
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And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.
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one daffodil is worth a thousand pleasures, then one is too few.
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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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I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills When all at once I saw a crowd A host of golden daffodils Beside the lake beneath the trees Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
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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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