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Our meddling intellect Misshapes 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
Beauteous
Dissect
Meddling
Intellect
Murder
Forms
Form
Things

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The Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society.
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Huge and mighty forms that do not live like living men, moved slowly through the mind by day and were trouble to my dreams.
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Spade! Thou art a tool of honor in my hands. I press thee, through a yielding soil, with pride.
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If the time should ever come when what is now called Science, thus famliarised to men, shall be ready to put on, as it were, a form of flesh and blood, the Poet will lend his divine spirit to the aid the transfiguration, and will welcome the Being thus produced, as a dear and genuine inmate of the household of man.
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Because the good old rule Sufficeth them,-the simple plan, That they should take who have the power, And they should keep who can.
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Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close upon the growing boy.
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Oft in my way have I stood still, though but a casual passenger, so much I felt the awfulness of life.
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The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.
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That inward eye/ Which is the bliss of solitude.
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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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Everything is tedious when one does not read with the feeling of the Author.
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Not Chaos, not the darkest pit of lowest Erebus, nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out by help of dreams - can breed such fear and awe as fall upon us often when we look into our Minds, into the Mind of Man.
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Turning, for them who pass, the common dust Of servile opportunity to gold.
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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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Yet tears to human suffering are due And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown Are mourned by man, and not by man alone.
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Dreams, books, are each a world.
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.
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The sightless Milton, with his hair Around his placid temples curled And Shakespeare at his side,-a freight, If clay could think and mind were weight, For him who bore the world!
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Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares!- The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays.
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Sad fancies do we then affect, In luxury of disrespect To our own prodigal excess Of too familiar happiness.
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