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Give all thou canst high Heaven rejects the lore of nicely-caluculated less or more.
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
High
Canst
Heaven
Nicely
Philanthropic
Less
Philanthropy
Give
Rejects
Giving
Generosity
Charity
Thou
Lore
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The flower that smells the sweetest is shy and lowly.
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Rest and be thankful.
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Behold the Child among his new-born blisses A six years' Darling of a pigmy size! See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly-learned art.
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Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect
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A deep distress has humanised my soul.
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Hope smiled when your nativity was cast, Children of Summer!
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I'm not talking about a show me other walls of this thing button, I mean a stumble button for wallbase.
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[Mathematics] is an independent world created out of pure intelligence.
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The fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.
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Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.
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Wrongs unredressed, or insults unavenged.
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A genial hearth, a hospitable board, and a refined rusticity.
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O dearer far than light and life are dear.
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On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, Musing is solitude
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One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave.
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With an eye made quiet by the power of harmony, and the deep power of joy, we see into the life of things.
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But trailing clouds of glory do we come, From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy!.
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For mightier far Than strength of nerve or sinew, or the sway Of magic potent over sun and star, Is love, though oft to agony distrest, And though his favourite be feeble woman's breast.
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My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began So is it now I am a man.
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She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be But she is in her grave, and oh The difference to me!
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