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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
Love
Strength
Break
Brain
Else
Heart
Thing
Endurable
Make
Twill
Would
Comfort
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Men who can hear the Decalogue, and feel To self-reproach.
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Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room And hermits are contented with their cells.
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On a fair prospect some have looked, And felt, as I have heard them say, As if the moving time had been A thing as steadfast as the scene On which they gazed themselves away.
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One of those heavenly days that cannot die.
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The unconquerable pang of despised love.
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That mighty orb of song, The divine Milton.
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I've watched you now a full half-hour Self-poised upon that yellow flower And, little Butterfly! Indeed I know not if you sleep or feed. How motionless! - not frozen seas More motionless! and then What joy awaits you, when the breeze Hath found you out among the trees, And calls you forth again!
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Yon foaming flood seems motionless as iceIts dizzy turbulence eludes the eye,Frozen by distance.
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The wind, a sightless laborer, whistles at his task.
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Whether we be young or old,Our destiny, our being's heart and home,Is with infinitude, and only thereWith hope it is, hope that can never die,Effort and expectation, and desire,And something evermore about to be.
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my brain Worked with a dim and undetermined sense Of unknown modes of being o'er my thoughts There hung a darkness, call it solitude Or blank desertion.
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Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, Let them live upon their praises.
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Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour Have passed away less happy than the one That by the unwilling ploughshare died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love.
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The silence that is in the starry sky, / The sleep that is among the lonely hills.
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In years that bring the philosophic mind.
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The child is father of the man.
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Every gift of noble origin Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath.
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To be a Prodigal's favourite,-then, worse truth, A Miser's pensioner,-behold our lot!
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A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by One after one the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky - I've thought of all by turns, and still I lie Sleepless.
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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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