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The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.
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
Good
Hearts
Summer
Whose
Dies
Death
Socket
Firsts
Dry
First
Burn
Heart
Dust
More quotes by William Wordsworth
O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive!
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We live by admiration, hope and love.
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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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[Mathematics] is an independent world created out of pure intelligence.
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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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And he is oft the wisest manWho is not wise at all.
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We live by Admiration, Hope, and Love And, even as these are well and wisely fixed, In dignity of being we ascend.
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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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And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.
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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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Pleasures newly found are sweet When they lie about our feet.
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Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
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Lady of the Mere, Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.
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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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Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
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The streams with softest sound are flowing, The grass you almost hear it growing, You hear it now, if e'er you can.
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'Tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes!
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Miss not the occasion by the forelock take that subtle power, the never-halting time.
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Bright flower! whose home is everywhere Bold in maternal nature's care And all the long year through the heir Of joy or sorrow, Methinks that there abides in thee Some concord with humanity, Given to no other flower I see The forest through.
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I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough, along the mountain-side. By our own spirits we are deified We Poets in our youth begin in gladness, But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
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