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The education of circumstances is superior to that of tuition.

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
Superiors
Motivation
Circumstances
Education
Experience
Inspirational
Tuition
Superior

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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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Let beeves and home-bred kine partake The sweets of Burn-mill meadow The swan on still St. Mary's Lake Float double, swan and shadow!
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Turning, for them who pass, the common dust Of servile opportunity to gold.
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Because the good old rule Sufficeth them,-the simple plan, That they should take who have the power, And they should keep who can.
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A Briton even in love should be A subject, not a slave!
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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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O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive!
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For oft, when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood they flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude
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Oft in my way have I stood still, though but a casual passenger, so much I felt the awfulness of life.
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Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill The Ploughboy is whooping — anon — anon! There's joy in the mountains: There's life in the fountains Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing The rain is over and gone.
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In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts bring sad thoughts to the mind.
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Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.
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A tale in everything.
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Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep/ Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind.
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No motion has she now, no force she neither hears nor sees rolled around in earth's diurnal course, with rocks, and stones, and trees.
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That to this mountain-daisy's self were known The beauty of its star-shaped shadow, thrown On the smooth surface of this naked stone!
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O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?
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And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.
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One with more of soul in his face than words on his tongue.
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Alas! how little can a moment show Of an eye where feeling plays In ten thousand dewy rays: A face o'er which a thousand shadows go!
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