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

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Thou unassuming common-place of Nature, with that homely face.
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Serene will be our days, and bright and happy will our nature be, when love is an unerring light, and joy its own security.
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The Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose.
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With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars.
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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.
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The mind of man is a thousand times more beautiful than the earth on which he dwells.
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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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There is One great society alone on earth: The noble living and the noble dead.
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Truth takes no account of centuries.
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Spires whose silent finger points to heaven.
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A Briton even in love should be A subject, not a slave!
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Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will Dear God! the very houses seem asleep And all that mighty heart is lying still!
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Thou has left behind Powers that will work for thee,-air, earth, and skies! There 's not a breathing of the common wind That will forget thee thou hast great allies Thy friends are exultations, agonies, And love, and man's unconquerable mind.
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Bright was the summer's noon when quickening steps Followed each other till a dreary moor Was crossed, a bare ridge clomb, upon whose top Standing alone, as from a rampart's edge, I overlooked the bed of Windermere, Like a vast river, stretching in the sun.
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I've watched you now a full half-hour Self-poised upon that yellow flower And, little Butterfly! Indeed I know not if you sleep or feed. How motionless! - not frozen seas More motionless! and then What joy awaits you, when the breeze Hath found you out among the trees, And calls you forth again!
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Like an army defeated the snow hath retreated.
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Science appears but what in truth she is, Not as our glory and our absolute boast, But as a succedaneum, and a prop To our infirmity.
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Neither evil tongues, rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all the dreary intercourse of daily life, shall ever prevail against us.
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The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an angel's wing.
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