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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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The thought of death sits easy on the man Who has been born and dies among the mountains.
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Society became my glittering bride, And airy hopes my children.
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And what if thou, sweet May, hast known Mishap by worm and blight If expectations newly blown Have perished in thy sight If loves and joys, while up they sprung, Were caught as in a snare Such is the lot of all the young, However bright and fair.
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My apprehension comes in crowds, I dread the rustling of the grass, The very shadows of the clouds, Have power to shake me as they pass, I question things and do not find, one that will answer to my mind, And all the world appears unkind.
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Wisdom married to immortal verse.
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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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My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard.
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Behold the Child among his new-born blisses A six years' Darling of a pigmy size! See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly-learned art.
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A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by One after one the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky - I've thought of all by turns, and still I lie Sleepless.
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That mighty orb of song, The divine Milton.
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Father! - to God himself we cannot give a holier name.
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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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Far from the world I walk, and from all care.
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Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
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Oft in my way have I stood still, though but a casual passenger, so much I felt the awfulness of life.
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The tears into his eyes were brought, And thanks and praises seemed to run So fast out of his heart, I thought They never would have done. -I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning Alas! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left me mourning.
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How many undervalue the power of simplicity ! But it is the real key to the heart.
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Then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils.
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To be young was very heaven!
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Of friends, however humble, scorn not one.
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