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Delight and liberty, the simple creed of childhood.

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
Delight
Childhood
Liberty
Simple
Creed
Creeds

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Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive But to be young was very heaven.
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And now I see with eye serene, The very pulse of the machine. A being breathing thoughtful breaths, A traveler between life and death.
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We Poets in our youth begin in gladness But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
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But He is risen, a later star of dawn.
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To be young was very heaven!
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Let the moon shine on the in thy solitary walk and let the misty mountain-winds be free to blow against thee.
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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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His high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright.
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With little here to do or see Of things that in the great world be, Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee For thou art worthy, Thou unassuming commonplace Of Nature, with that homely face, And yet with something of a grace Which love makes for thee!
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May books and nature be their early joy!
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The human mind is capable of excitement without the application of gross and violent stimulants and he must have a very faint perception of its beauty and dignity who does not know this.
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By all means sometimes be alone salute thyself see what thy soul doth wear dare to look in thy chest and tumble up and down what thou findest there.
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. Not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come.
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Thou unassuming common-place of Nature, with that homely face.
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one daffodil is worth a thousand pleasures, then one is too few.
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Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares!- The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays.
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Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill The Ploughboy is whooping — anon — anon! There's joy in the mountains: There's life in the fountains Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing The rain is over and gone.
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Like an army defeated the snow hath retreated.
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The mind of man is a thousand times more beautiful than the earth on which he dwells.
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The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.
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