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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
Summer
Whose
Dies
Death
Socket
Firsts
Dry
First
Burn
Heart
Dust
Good
Hearts

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Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.
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Stern daughter of the voice of God! O Duty! if that name thou love Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring and reprove.
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And mighty poets in their misery dead.
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Memories... images and precious thoughts that shall not die and cannot be destroyed.
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Thou unassuming common-place of Nature, with that homely face.
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But hushed be every thought that springs From out the bitterness of things.
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On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, Musing is solitude
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Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
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And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.
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And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore.
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Oft in my way have I stood still, though but a casual passenger, so much I felt the awfulness of life.
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Not in Utopia, -- subterranean fields, --Or some secreted island, Heaven knows whereBut in the very world, which is the worldOf all of us, -- the place where in the endWe find our happiness, or not at all
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The child is father of the man.
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In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease and, of its joy secure, The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, And on the vacant air.
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Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.
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Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect
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Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind--But how could I forget thee?
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Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry and these we adore Plain living and high thinking are no more.
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