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Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close upon the growing boy.
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
Time
Lies
Close
Boys
Shades
Growing
Infancy
Heaven
Shade
Lying
Prison
Upon
Childhood
House
Begin
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The light that never was, on sea or land The consecration, and the Poet's dream.
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The very flowers are sacred to the poor.
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Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive But to be young was very heaven.
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.
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All men feel a habitual gratitude, and something of an honorable bigotry, for the objects which have long continued to please them.
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A deep distress has humanised my soul.
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Then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils.
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Those old credulities, to Nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock Of history?
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The memory of the just survives in Heaven.
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O Reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle Reader! you would find A tale in everything.
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Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn
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Faith is a passionate intuition.
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The child is father of the man.
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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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Tis said, fantastic ocean doth enfold The likeness of whate'er on land is seen.
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Pleasures newly found are sweet When they lie about our feet.
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Thou has left behind Powers that will work for thee,-air, earth, and skies! There 's not a breathing of the common wind That will forget thee thou hast great allies Thy friends are exultations, agonies, And love, and man's unconquerable mind.
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His love was like the liberal air, embracing all, to cheer and bless.
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Mark the babe not long accustomed to this breathing world One that hath barely learned to shape a smile, though yet irrational of soul, to grasp with tiny finger - to let fall a tear And, as the heavy cloud of sleep dissolves, To stretch his limbs, becoming, as might seem. The outward functions of intelligent man.
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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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