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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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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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A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard... Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.
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To be a Prodigal's favourite,-then, worse truth, A Miser's pensioner,-behold our lot!
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'T is hers to pluck the amaranthine flower Of faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower, And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.
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Books are yours, Within whose silent chambers treasure lies Preserved from age to age more precious far Than that accumulated store of gold And orient gems, which, for a day of need, The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs. These hoards of truth you can unlock at will.
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The child is father of the man.
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The monumental pomp of age Was with this goodly personage A stature undepressed in size, Unbent, which rather seemed to rise In open victory o'er the weight Of seventy years, to loftier height.
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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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Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretch'd in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
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The clouds that gather round the setting sun, Do take a sober colouring from an eye, That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality.
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Stop thinking for once in your life!
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Let the moon shine on the in thy solitary walk and let the misty mountain-winds be free to blow against thee.
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The gods approve The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul.
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Choice word and measured phrase above the reach Of ordinary men.
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Miss not the occasion by the forelock take that subtle power, the never-halting time.
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To the solid ground Of nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye.
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Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind--But how could I forget thee?
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Great is the glory, for the strife is hard!
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In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts bring sad thoughts to the mind.
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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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