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... and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.

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
Shall
Stars
Pleasure
Find
Dimness

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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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When from our better selves we have too long been parted by the hurrying world, and droop. Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, how gracious, how benign is solitude.
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Men who can hear the Decalogue, and feel To self-reproach.
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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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How many undervalue the power of simplicity ! But it is the real key to the heart.
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One in whom persuasion and belief Had ripened into faith, and faith become A passionate intuition.
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Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray.
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The Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society.
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Who, doomed to go in company with Pain And Fear and Bloodshed,-miserable train!- Turns his necessity to glorious gain.
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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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And when the stream Which overflowed the soul was passed away, A consciousness remained that it had left Deposited upon the silent shore Of memory images and precious thoughts That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed.
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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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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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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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Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity.
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The budding rose above the rose full blown.
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The thought of death sits easy on the man Who has been born and dies among the mountains.
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Oh for a single hour of that Dundee Who on that day the word of onset gave!
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One of those heavenly days that cannot die.
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