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

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The first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
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In modern business it is not the crook who is to be feared most, it is the honest man who doesn't know what he is doing.
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Therefore am I still a lover of the meadows and the woods, and mountains and of all that we behold from this green earth.
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I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills When all at once I saw a crowd A host of golden daffodils Beside the lake beneath the trees Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
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The stars of midnight shall be dear To her and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face.
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That inward eye/ Which is the bliss of solitude.
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Sweet Mercy! to the gates of heaven This minstrel lead, his sins forgiven The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour, And memory of Earth's bitter leaven Effaced forever.
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Thought and theory must precede all action, that moves to salutary purposes. Yet action is nobler in itself than either thought or theory.
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One solace yet remains for us who came Into this world in days when story lacked Severe research, that in our hearts we know How, for exciting youth's heroic flame, Assent is power, belief the soul of fact.
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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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The wind, a sightless laborer, whistles at his task.
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What know we of the Blest above but that they sing, and that they love?
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Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?
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Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While 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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Sad fancies do we then affect, In luxury of disrespect To our own prodigal excess Of too familiar happiness.
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Sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart.
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A multitude of causes unknown to former times are now acting with a combined force to blunt the discriminating powers of the mind, and unfitting it for all voluntary exertion to reduce it to a state of almost savage torpor.
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Thou unassuming common-place of Nature, with that homely face.
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Babylon, Learned and wise, hath perished utterly, Nor leaves her speech one word to aid the sigh That would lament her.
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