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Rest and be thankful.

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
Thankful
Rest
Thankfulness

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Not in Utopia, -- subterranean fields, --Or some secreted island, Heaven knows whereBut in the very world, which is the worldOf all of us, -- the place where in the endWe find our happiness, or not at all
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The softest breeze to fairest flowers gives birth: Think not that Prudence dwells in dark abodes, She scans the future with the eye of gods.
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Worse than idle is compassion if it ends in tears and sighs.
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That though the radiance which was once so bright be now forever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, glory in the flower. We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
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Wild is the music of autumnal winds Amongst the faded woods.
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Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.
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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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Wisdom and Spirit of the universe! Thou soul, that art the eternity of thought, And giv'st to forms and images a breath And everlasting motion.
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But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.
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Stern daughter of the voice of God! O Duty! if that name thou love Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring and reprove.
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Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray.
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Minds that have nothing to confer Find little to perceive.
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That blessed mood in which the burthen of the mystery, in which the heavy and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world is lightened.
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Memories... images and precious thoughts that shall not die and cannot be destroyed.
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Give all thou canst high Heaven rejects the lore of nicely-caluculated less or more.
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Sweet childish days, that were as long, As twenty days are now.
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Chains tie us down by land and sea And wishes, vain as mine, may be All that is left to comfort thee.
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She was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight, A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament Her eyes as stars of twilight fair, Like twilights too her dusky hair, But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn.
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We murder to dissect.
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The world is too much with us late and soon, getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours.
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