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

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If thou art beautiful, and youth and thought endue thee with all truth-be strong--be worthy of the grace of God.
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Small service is true service, while it lasts.
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Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.
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In ourselves our safety must be sought. By our own right hand it must be wrought.
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A great poet ought to a certain degree to rectify men's feelings... to render their feelings more sane, pure and permanent, in short, more consonant to Nature.
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But who shall parcel out His intellect by geometric rules, Split like a province into round and square?
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She was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight, A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament Her eyes as stars of twilight fair, Like twilights too her dusky hair, But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn.
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As generations come and go, Their arts, their customs, ebb and flow Fate, fortune, sweep strong powers away, And feeble, of themselves, decay.
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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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Truth takes no account of centuries.
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That mighty orb of song, The divine Milton.
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A brotherhood of venerable trees.
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Either still I find Some imperfection in the chosen theme, Or see of absolute accomplishment Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself, That I recoil and droop, and seek repose In listlessness from vain perplexity, Unprofitably travelling towards the grave.
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The thought of death sits easy on the man Who has been born and dies among the mountains.
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The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone
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'T is hers to pluck the amaranthine flower Of faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower, And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.
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Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares!- The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays.
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Stay, little cheerful Robin! stay, And at my casement sing, Though it should prove a farewell lay And this our parting spring. * * * * * Then, little Bird, this boon confer, Come, and my requiem sing, Nor fail to be the harbinger Of everlasting spring.
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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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Ten thousand saw I at a glance, tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
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