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True beauty dwells in deep retreats, Whose veil is unremoved Till heart with heart in concord beats, And the lover is beloved.

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
Beats
Dwells
Whose
Veil
Deep
Veils
Fiction
Retreat
Beauty
Lover
True
Beloved
Heart
Till
Retreats
Life
Lovers
Concord

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A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard... Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.
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I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, wherever nature led.
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What is good for a bootless bene? With these dark words begins my tale And their meaning is, Whence can comfort spring When prayer is of no avail?
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Bright flower! whose home is everywhere Bold in maternal nature's care And all the long year through the heir Of joy or sorrow, Methinks that there abides in thee Some concord with humanity, Given to no other flower I see The forest through.
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Pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.
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Serene will be our days, and bright and happy will our nature be, when love is an unerring light, and joy its own security.
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The mind of man is a thousand times more beautiful than the earth on which he dwells.
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Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, We feel that we are greater than we know.
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One with more of soul in his face than words on his tongue.
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Wild is the music of autumnal winds Amongst the faded woods.
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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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... and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
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Laying out grounds... may be considered as a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.... it is to assist Nature in moving the affections... the affections of those who have the deepest perception of the beauty of Nature.
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Not in Utopia, -- subterranean fields, --Or some secreted island, Heaven knows whereBut in the very world, which is the worldOf all of us, -- the place where in the endWe find our happiness, or not at all
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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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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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