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There is a comfort in the strength of love 'Twill make a thing endurable, which else would overset the brain, or break the heart.
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
Would
Comfort
Love
Strength
Break
Brain
Else
Heart
Thing
Endurable
Make
Twill
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Let Nature be your teacher
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Plain living and high thinking are no more. The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone our peace, our fearful innocence, And pure religion breathing household laws.
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What know we of the Blest above but that they sing, and that they love?
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Burn all the statutes and their shelves: They stir us up against our kind And worse, against ourselves.
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At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.
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When from our better selves we have too long been parted by the hurrying world, and droop. Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, how gracious, how benign is solitude.
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A babe, by intercourse of touch I held mute dialogues with my Mother's heart.
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Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn
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Great God! I'd rather be a Pagan.
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I should dread to disfigure the beautiful ideal of the memories of illustrious persons with incongruous features, and to sully the imaginative purity of classical works with gross and trivial recollections.
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Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?
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Yon foaming flood seems motionless as iceIts dizzy turbulence eludes the eye,Frozen by distance.
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Books are the best type of the influence of the past.
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Oft on the dappled turf at ease I sit, and play with similes, Loose type of things through all degrees.
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Me this uncharted freedom tires I feel the weight of chance desires, My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same.
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The thought of our past years in me doth breed perpetual benedictions.
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The child is father of the man.
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Sweetest melodies.Are those that are by distance made more sweet.
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All men feel a habitual gratitude, and something of an honorable bigotry, for the objects which have long continued to please them.
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