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Plain living and high thinking are no 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
Thinking
Life
Idolatry
Avarice
Plain
High
Living

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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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One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave.
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Imagination, which in truth Is but another name for absolute power And clearest insight, amplitude of mind, And reason, in her most exalted mood.
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Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed Their snow-white blossoms on my head, With brightest sunshine round me spread Of spring's unclouded weather, In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard-seat! And birds and flowers once more to greet, My last year's friends together.
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Oh for a single hour of that Dundee Who on that day the word of onset gave!
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From the body of one guilty deed a thousand ghostly fears and haunting thoughts proceed.
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Great men have been among us hands that penn'd And tongues that utter'd wisdom--better none
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This City now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie Open unto the fields and to the sky All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
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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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To be a Prodigal's favourite,-then, worse truth, A Miser's pensioner,-behold our lot!
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Take the sweet poetry of life away, and what remains behind?
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His high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright.
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Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep/ Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind.
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The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.
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Dreams, books, are each a world and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow.
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A power is passing from the earth.
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The monumental pomp of age Was with this goodly personage A stature undepressed in size, Unbent, which rather seemed to rise In open victory o'er the weight Of seventy years, to loftier height.
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A lake carries you into recesses of feeling otherwise impenetrable.
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Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour Have passed away less happy than the one That by the unwilling ploughshare died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love.
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Nature's old felicities.
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