Quote

The eye— it cannot choose but see we cannot bid the ear be still our bodies feel, where'er they be, against or with our will.

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
Feel
Bodies
Feels
Ears
Choose
Eye
Cannot
Stills
Still
Body

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The child is father of the man: And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
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His high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright.
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Imagination, which in truth Is but another name for absolute power And clearest insight, amplitude of mind, And reason, in her most exalted mood.
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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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Every gift of noble origin Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath.
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The education of circumstances is superior to that of tuition.
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Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
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Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.
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My apprehension comes in crowds, I dread the rustling of the grass, The very shadows of the clouds, Have power to shake me as they pass, I question things and do not find, one that will answer to my mind, And all the world appears unkind.
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O Reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle Reader! you would find A tale in everything.
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Love betters what is best
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The earth was all before me. With a heart Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty, I look about and should the chosen guide Be nothing better than a wandering cloud, I cannot miss my way.
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We bow our heads before Thee, and we laud, And magnify thy name Almighty God! But man is thy most awful instrument, In working out a pure intent.
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And through the heat of conflict keeps the law In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw.
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Sweet Mercy! to the gates of heaven This minstrel lead, his sins forgiven The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour, And memory of Earth's bitter leaven Effaced forever.
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The memory of the just survives in Heaven.
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Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound.
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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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Up! up! my friend, and quit your books, Or surely you 'll grow double! Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks! Why all this toil and trouble?
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Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower.
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