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Delivered from the galling yoke of time.

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
Galling
Yoke
Delivered
Time

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Two voices are there one is of the sea, One of the mountains: each a mighty Voice.
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Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows Like harmony in music there is a dark Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles Discordant elements, makes them cling together In one society.
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Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns.
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Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower.
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Nor will I then thy modest grace forget, Chaste Snow-drop, venturous harbinger of Spring, And pensive monitor of fleeting years!
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Monastic brotherhood, upon rock Aerial.
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The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar.
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He who feels contempt for any living thing hath faculties that he hath never used, and thought with him is in its infancy.
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Chains tie us down by land and sea And wishes, vain as mine, may be All that is left to comfort thee.
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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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Delight and liberty, the simple creed of childhood.
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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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Lady of the Mere, Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.
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Careless of books, yet having felt the power Of Nature, by the gentle agency Of natural objects, led me on to feel For passions that were not my own, and think (At random and imperfectly indeed) On man, the heart of man, and human life.
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Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee! . . . . . . Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart: So didst thou travel on life's common way In cheerful godliness.
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Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.
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Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
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True beauty dwells in deep retreats, Whose veil is unremoved Till heart with heart in concord beats, And the lover is beloved.
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To be a Prodigal's favourite,-then, worse truth, A Miser's pensioner,-behold our lot!
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