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What are fears but voices airy? Whispering harm where harm is not. And deluding the unwary Till the fatal bolt is shot!
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
Till
Deluding
Shot
Bolt
Harm
Airy
Shots
Bolts
Voice
Whispering
Fear
Fatal
Voices
Fears
Unwary
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On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, Musing is solitude
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Tis not in battles that from youth we train The Governor who must be wise and good, And temper with the sternness of the brain Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood.
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The ocean is a mighty harmonist.
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Oh, blank confusion! true epitome Of what the mighty City is herself, To thousands upon thousands of her sons, Living amid the same perpetual whirl Of trivial objects, melted and reduced To one identity.
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Tis said, fantastic ocean doth enfold The likeness of whate'er on land is seen.
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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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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 man he seems of cheerful yesterdays And confident tomorrows.
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The Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society.
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I should dread to disfigure the beautiful ideal of the memories of illustrious persons with incongruous features, and to sully the imaginative purity of classical works with gross and trivial recollections.
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Primroses, the Spring may love them Summer knows but little of them.
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Poetry is the outcome of emotions recollected in tranquility.
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Yet sometimes, when the secret cup Of still and serious thought went round, It seemed as if he drank it up, He felt with spirit so profound.
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Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will Dear God! the very houses seem asleep And all that mighty heart is lying still!
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A power is passing from the earth.
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On a fair prospect some have looked, And felt, as I have heard them say, As if the moving time had been A thing as steadfast as the scene On which they gazed themselves away.
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To be young was very heaven!
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What know we of the Blest above but that they sing, and that they love?
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A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light
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Milton, thou should'st be living at this hour.
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