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We live by Admiration, Hope, and Love And, even as these are well and wisely fixed, In dignity of being we ascend.

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
Hope
Live
Wells
Well
Ascend
Even
Wisely
Love
Admiration
Life
Fixed
Dignity

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How does the Meadow flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free down to its root, and in that freedom bold.
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Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower.
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Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain That has been, and may be again.
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We must be free or die, who speak the tongue That Shakespeare spake the faith and morals hold Which Milton held.
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I have felt a presence that disturbs me with the joy of elevated thoughts a sense sublime of something far more deeply interfused, whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, and the round ocean, and the living air, and the blue sky, and in the mind of man.
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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 So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! The Child is father of the Man I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
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Action is transitory, a step, a blow, The motion of a muscle, this way or that, 'Tis done--And in the after-vacancy, We wonder at ourselves, like men betrayed.
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Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?
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Books! tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it.
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The tears into his eyes were brought, And thanks and praises seemed to run So fast out of his heart, I thought They never would have done. -I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning Alas! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left me mourning.
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We murder to dissect.
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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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Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade Of that which once was great is passed away.
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But how can he expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?
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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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I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough, along the mountain-side. By our own spirits we are deified We Poets in our youth begin in gladness, But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
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The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.
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The Eagle, he was lord above
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One in whom persuasion and belief Had ripened into faith, and faith become A passionate intuition.
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Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns.
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