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poetry is the breath and finer spirit of knowledge

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
Breaths
Poetry
Knowledge
Spirit
Impassioned
Finer
Breath

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A mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone.
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A tale in everything.
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Milton, thou should'st be living at this hour.
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A deep distress has humanised my soul.
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The child is the father of man.
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Ah, what a warning for a thoughtless man, Could field or grove, could any spot of earth, Show to his eye an image of the pangs Which it hath witnessed,-render back an echo Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod!
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Action is transitory, a step, a blow, The motion of a muscle, this way or that, 'Tis done--And in the after-vacancy, We wonder at ourselves, like men betrayed.
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Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
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Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none / Look up a second time, and, one by one, / You mark them twinkling out with silvery light, / And wonder how they could elude the sight!
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I am already kindly disposed towards you. My friendship it is not in my power to give: this is a gift which no man can make, it is not in our own power: a sound and healthy friendship is the growth of time and circumstance, it will spring up and thrive like a wildflower when these favour, and when they do not, it is in vain to look for it.
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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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Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity.
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Choice word and measured phrase above the reach Of ordinary men.
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One in whom persuasion and belief Had ripened into faith, and faith become A passionate intuition.
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The sunshine is a glorious birth But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.
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All men feel a habitual gratitude, and something of an honorable bigotry, for the objects which have long continued to please them.
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On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, Musing is solitude
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Sweet is the lore which Nature brings Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: We murder to dissect.
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In spite of difference of soil and climate, of language and manners, of laws and customs-in spite of things silently gone out of mind, and things violently destroyed, the Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society, as it is spread over the whole earth, and over all time.
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A few strong instincts and a few plain rules.
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