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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.

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
Strength
Breast
Stars
Agony
Though
Favourite
Sinew
Woman
Nerves
Mightier
Women
Breasts
Sway
Love
Star
Potent
Life
Sun
Feeble
Magic
Nerve

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The sunshine is a glorious birth But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.
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In spite of difference of soil and climate, of language and manners, of laws and customs-in spite of things silently gone out of mind, and things violently destroyed, the Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society, as it is spread over the whole earth, and over all time.
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The mind that is wise mourns less for what age takes away than what it leaves behind.
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Give all thou canst high Heaven rejects the lore of nicely-caluculated less or more.
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That blessed mood in which the burthen of the mystery, in which the heavy and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world is lightened.
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True dignity abides with him alone Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, Can still suspect, and still revere himself, In lowliness of heart.
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Hearing often-times the still, sad music of humanity, nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power to chasten and subdue.
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Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close upon the growing boy.
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Write to me frequently & the longest letters possible never mind whether you have facts or no to communicate fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
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Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?
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Up! up! my friend, and quit your books, Or surely you 'll grow double! Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks! Why all this toil and trouble?
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She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.
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