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Great God! I'd rather be a Pagan.

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
Pagan
Rather
Great

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Those old credulities, to Nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock Of history?
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Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.
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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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His high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright.
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But hushed be every thought that springs From out the bitterness of things.
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...one interior life in which all beings live with God, themselves are God, existing in the mighty whole, indistinguishable as the cloudless east is from the cloudless west, when all the hemisphere is one cerulean blue.
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Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither.
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To character and success, two things, contradictory as they may seem, must go together... humble dependence on God and manly reliance on self.
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But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.
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A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
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This City now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie Open unto the fields and to the sky All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
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The softest breeze to fairest flowers gives birth: Think not that Prudence dwells in dark abodes, She scans the future with the eye of gods.
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the Mind of Man-- My haunt, and the main region of my song.
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To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
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Choice word and measured phrase above the reach Of ordinary men.
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A tale in everything.
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Turning, for them who pass, the common dust Of servile opportunity to gold.
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The moving accident is not my trade To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.
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The world is too much with us late and soon, getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours.
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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.
William Wordsworth