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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
Make
Twill
Would
Comfort
Love
Strength
Break
Brain
Else
Heart
Thing
Endurable

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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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Earth has not anything to show more fair.
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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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Those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings Blank misgivings of a Creature Moving about in worlds not realised, High instincts before which our mortal Nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised
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Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.
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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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Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there In happier beauty more pellucid streams, An ampler ether, a diviner air, And fields invested with purpureal gleams.
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She seemed a thing that could not feel the touch of earthly years.
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Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
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Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade Of that which once was great is passed away.
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How is it that you live, and what is it you do?
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Nor will I then thy modest grace forget, Chaste Snow-drop, venturous harbinger of Spring, And pensive monitor of fleeting years!
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A lawyer art thou? Draw not nigh! Go, carry to some fitter place The keenness of that practised eye, The hardness of that sallow face.
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My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard.
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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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In ourselves our safety must be sought. By our own right hand it must be wrought.
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The silence that is in the starry sky, / The sleep that is among the lonely hills.
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