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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
Alive
Heaven
Young
Prelude
Bliss
Dawn

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O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive!
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Rest and be thankful.
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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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Books are the best type of the influence of the past.
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Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.
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Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher.
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The Eagle, he was lord above
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We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
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Faith is a passionate intuition.
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Bright was the summer's noon when quickening steps Followed each other till a dreary moor Was crossed, a bare ridge clomb, upon whose top Standing alone, as from a rampart's edge, I overlooked the bed of Windermere, Like a vast river, stretching in the sun.
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Yet tears to human suffering are due And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown Are mourned by man, and not by man alone.
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And what if thou, sweet May, hast known Mishap by worm and blight If expectations newly blown Have perished in thy sight If loves and joys, while up they sprung, Were caught as in a snare Such is the lot of all the young, However bright and fair.
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When his veering gait And every motion of his starry train Seem governed by a strain Of music, audible to him alone.
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Oh, be wise, Thou! Instructed that true knowledge leads to love.
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For mightier far Than strength of nerve or sinew, or the sway Of magic potent over sun and star, Is love, though oft to agony distrest, And though his favourite be feeble woman's breast.
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He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.
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And he is oft the wisest manWho is not wise at all.
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She gave me eyes, she gave me ears And humble cares, and delicate fears A heart, the fountain of sweet tears And love and thought and joy.
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Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.
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He who feels contempt for any living thing hath faculties that he hath never used, and thought with him is in its infancy.
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