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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
Past
Thought
Years
Time
Benedictions
Benediction
Breed
Doth
Perpetual
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Choice word and measured phrase above the reach Of ordinary men.
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We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
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She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.
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The mind of man is a thousand times more beautiful than the earth on which he dwells.
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Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there In happier beauty more pellucid streams, An ampler ether, a diviner air, And fields invested with purpureal gleams.
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That kill the bloom before its time, And blanch, without the owner's crime, The most resplendent hair.
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in the mind of man, A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things.
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Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.
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In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease and, of its joy secure, The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, And on the vacant air.
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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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The stars of midnight shall be dear To her and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face.
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Minds that have nothing to confer Find little to perceive.
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Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
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Delight and liberty, the simple creed of childhood.
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The budding rose above the rose full blown.
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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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The unconquerable pang of despised love.
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Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns.
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But hushed be every thought that springs From out the bitterness of things.
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I look for ghosts but none will force Their way to me. 'Tis falsely said That there was ever intercourse Between the living and the dead.
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