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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
Feels
Ears
Choose
Eye
Cannot
Stills
Still
Body
Feel
Bodies

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The monumental pomp of age Was with this goodly personage A stature undepressed in size, Unbent, which rather seemed to rise In open victory o'er the weight Of seventy years, to loftier height.
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Dreams, books, are each a world and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow.
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Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, We feel that we are greater than we know.
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That best portion of a man's life, his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love.
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His love was like the liberal air, embracing all, to cheer and bless.
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Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows Like harmony in music there is a dark Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles Discordant elements, makes them cling together In one society.
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But an old age serene and bright, and lovely as a Lapland night, shall lead thee to thy grave.
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I have felt a presence that disturbs me with the joy of elevated thoughts a sense sublime of something far more deeply interfused, whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, and the round ocean, and the living air, and the blue sky, and in the mind of man.
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Pictures deface walls more often than they decorate them.
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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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Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity.
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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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Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge - it is as immortal as the heart of man.
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No motion has she now, no force she neither hears nor sees rolled around in earth's diurnal course, with rocks, and stones, and trees.
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He spake of love, such love as spirits feel In worlds whose course is equable and pure No fears to beat away, no strife to heal,- The past unsighed for, and the future sure.
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How many undervalue the power of simplicity ! But it is the real key to the heart.
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One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.
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Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters.
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Earth has not anything to show more fair.
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Far from the world I walk, and from all care.
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