Quote

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.

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
Doth
Beauty
Sky
Bare
Morning
Wear
Towers
Lying
Silent
Theatres
Like
Air
Unto
Domes
Fields
Temples
Glittering
City
Ships
Garment
Cities
Bright
Garments
Open
Theatre

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In spite of difference of soil and climate, of language and manners, of laws and customs-in spite of things silently gone out of mind, and things violently destroyed, the Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society, as it is spread over the whole earth, and over all time.
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Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.
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My apprehension comes in crowds, I dread the rustling of the grass, The very shadows of the clouds, Have power to shake me as they pass, I question things and do not find, one that will answer to my mind, And all the world appears unkind.
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There's something in a flying horse, There's something in a huge balloon.
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Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close upon the growing boy.
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Men who can hear the Decalogue, and feel To self-reproach.
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But who shall parcel out His intellect by geometric rules, Split like a province into round and square?
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Pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.
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Faith is a passionate intuition.
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Stop thinking for once in your life!
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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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May books and nature be their early joy!
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Great men have been among us hands that penn'd And tongues that utter'd wisdom--better none
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The ocean is a mighty harmonist.
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But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.
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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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Since thy return, through days and weeks Of hope that grew by stealth, How many wan and faded cheeks Have kindled into health! The Old, by thee revived, have said, 'Another year is ours' And wayworn Wanderers, poorly fed, Have smiled upon thy flowers.
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A deep distress has humanised my soul.
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Write to me frequently & the longest letters possible never mind whether you have facts or no to communicate fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
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