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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
Poetry
Knowledge
Spirit
Impassioned
Finer
Breath
Breaths

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That to this mountain-daisy's self were known The beauty of its star-shaped shadow, thrown On the smooth surface of this naked stone!
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The ocean is a mighty harmonist.
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With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars.
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Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind--But how could I forget thee?
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I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills When all at once I saw a crowd A host of golden daffodils Beside the lake beneath the trees Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
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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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She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.
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I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, wherever nature led.
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Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretch'd in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
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Dreams, books, are each a world.
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Then blame not those who, by the mightiest lever Known to the moral world, Imagination.
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Brothers all In honour, as in one community, Scholars and gentlemen.
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The Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society.
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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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Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close upon the growing boy.
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Tis not in battles that from youth we train The Governor who must be wise and good, And temper with the sternness of the brain Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood.
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Meek Nature's evening comment on the shows That for oblivion take their daily birth From all the fuming vanities of earth.
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the Mind of Man-- My haunt, and the main region of my song.
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Everything is tedious when one does not read with the feeling of the Author.
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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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