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The thought of our past years in me doth breed perpetual benedictions.

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
Benedictions
Benediction
Breed
Doth
Perpetual
Past
Thought
Years

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Scorn not the sonnet. Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart.
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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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Where the statue stood Of Newton, with his prism and silent face, The marble index of a mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of thought alone.
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Poetry is emotion recollected in tranquillity.
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Miss not the occasion by the forelock take that subtle power, the never-halting time.
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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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Ten thousand saw I at a glance, tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
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Come grow old with me. The best is yet to be.
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The mind that is wise mourns less for what age takes away than what it leaves behind.
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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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Now when the primrose makes a splendid show, And lilies face the March-winds in full blow, And humbler growths as moved with one desire Put on, to welcome spring, their best attire, Poor Robin is yet flowerless but how gay With his red stalks upon this sunny day!
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I am already kindly disposed towards you. My friendship it is not in my power to give: this is a gift which no man can make, it is not in our own power: a sound and healthy friendship is the growth of time and circumstance, it will spring up and thrive like a wildflower when these favour, and when they do not, it is in vain to look for it.
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A cheerful life is what the Muses love. A soaring spirit is their prime delight.
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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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I'll teach my boy the sweetest things I'll teach him how the owlet sings.
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Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.
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Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher.
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The child shall become father to the man.
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I've watched you now a full half-hour Self-poised upon that yellow flower And, little Butterfly! Indeed I know not if you sleep or feed. How motionless! - not frozen seas More motionless! and then What joy awaits you, when the breeze Hath found you out among the trees, And calls you forth again!
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Let Nature be your teacher
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