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Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive But to be young was very heaven.

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
Bliss
Dawn
Alive
Heaven
Young
Prelude

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Dreams, books, are each a world.
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Far from the world I walk, and from all care.
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Small service is true service, while it lasts.
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To the solid ground Of nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye.
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Type of the wise who soar but never roam, True to the kindred points of heaven and home.
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I listened, motionless and still And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.
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Laying out grounds... may be considered as a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.... it is to assist Nature in moving the affections... the affections of those who have the deepest perception of the beauty of Nature.
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There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream.
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Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound.
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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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Alas! how little can a moment show Of an eye where feeling plays In ten thousand dewy rays: A face o'er which a thousand shadows go!
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Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill The Ploughboy is whooping — anon — anon! There's joy in the mountains: There's life in the fountains Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing The rain is over and gone.
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Sweetest melodies.Are those that are by distance made more sweet.
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'T is hers to pluck the amaranthine flower Of faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower, And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.
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Where the statue stood Of Newton, with his prism and silent face, The marble index of a mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of thought alone.
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Let Nature be your teacher
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Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence.
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But hushed be every thought that springs From out the bitterness of things.
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Take the sweet poetry of life away, and what remains behind?
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Delight and liberty, the simple creed of childhood.
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