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One impulse from a vernal wood

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
Impulse
Vernal
Wood

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Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.
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Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion.
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The intellectual power, through words and things, Went sounding on a dim and perilous way!
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To character and success, two things, contradictory as they may seem, must go together... humble dependence on God and manly reliance on self.
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The light that never was, on sea or land The consecration, and the Poet's dream.
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A soul so pitiably forlorn, If such do on this earth abide, May season apathy with scorn, May turn indifference to pride And still be not unblest- compared With him who grovels, self-debarred From all that lies within the scope Of holy faith and christian hope Or, shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.
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Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge - it is as immortal as the heart of man.
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The softest breeze to fairest flowers gives birth: Think not that Prudence dwells in dark abodes, She scans the future with the eye of gods.
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The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, An appetite a feeling and a love that had no need of a remoter charm by thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.
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Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry and these we adore Plain living and high thinking are no more.
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The wealthiest man among us is the best
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Plain living and high thinking are no more. The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone our peace, our fearful innocence, And pure religion breathing household laws.
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What know we of the Blest above but that they sing, and that they love?
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As in the eye of Nature he has lived, So in the eye of Nature let him die!
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I'll teach my boy the sweetest things I'll teach him how the owlet sings.
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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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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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