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I'll teach my boy the sweetest things I'll teach him how the owlet sings.

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
Sings
Sweetest
Boys
Teach
Things

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I travelled among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea Nor England! did I know till then What love I bore to thee.
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A soul so pitiably forlorn, If such do on this earth abide, May season apathy with scorn, May turn indifference to pride And still be not unblest- compared With him who grovels, self-debarred From all that lies within the scope Of holy faith and christian hope Or, shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.
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I should dread to disfigure the beautiful ideal of the memories of illustrious persons with incongruous features, and to sully the imaginative purity of classical works with gross and trivial recollections.
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And now I see with eye serene, The very pulse of the machine. A being breathing thoughtful breaths, A traveler between life and death.
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Habit rules the unreflecting herd.
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The primal duties shine aloft, like stars The charities that soothe, and heal, and bless, Are scattered at the feet of Man, like flowers.
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We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted.
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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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Oh, blank confusion! true epitome Of what the mighty City is herself, To thousands upon thousands of her sons, Living amid the same perpetual whirl Of trivial objects, melted and reduced To one identity.
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At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.
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Therefore am I still a lover of the meadows and the woods, and mountains and of all that we behold from this green earth.
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Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry and these we adore Plain living and high thinking are no more.
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Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none / Look up a second time, and, one by one, / You mark them twinkling out with silvery light, / And wonder how they could elude the sight!
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Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour Have passed away less happy than the one That by the unwilling ploughshare died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love.
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Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?
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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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Earth has not anything to show more fair.
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We have within ourselves Enough to fill the present day with joy, And overspread the future years with hope.
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Be mild, and cleave to gentle things, thy glory and thy happiness be there.
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Poetry has never brought me in enough money to buy shoestrings.
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