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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.

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
Things
Intellect
Murder
Brings
Forms
Shapes
Beauteous
Sweet
Dissect
Nature
Lore
Form
Meddling

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And suddenly all your troubles melt away, all your worries are gone, and it is for no reason other than the look in your partner's eyes. Yes, sometimes life and love really is that simple.
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The vision and the faculty divine Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse.
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The tears into his eyes were brought, And thanks and praises seemed to run So fast out of his heart, I thought They never would have done. -I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning Alas! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left me mourning.
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Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.
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Of friends, however humble, scorn not one.
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Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep/ Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind.
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Oft on the dappled turf at ease I sit, and play with similes, Loose type of things through all degrees.
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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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The Eagle, he was lord above
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The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.
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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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Since thy return, through days and weeks Of hope that grew by stealth, How many wan and faded cheeks Have kindled into health! The Old, by thee revived, have said, 'Another year is ours' And wayworn Wanderers, poorly fed, Have smiled upon thy flowers.
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[Mathematics] is an independent world created out of pure intelligence.
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Often have I sighed to measure By myself a lonely pleasure,- Sighed to think I read a book, Only read, perhaps, by me.
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The silence that is in the starry sky, / The sleep that is among the lonely hills.
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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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The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, An appetite a feeling and a love that had no need of a remoter charm by thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.
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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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How fast has brother followed brother, From sunshine to the sunless land!
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