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All that we behold is full of blessings.

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
Behold
Thanksgiving
Blessings
Gratitude
Blessing
Full
Kids

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I've watched you now a full half-hour Self-poised upon that yellow flower And, little Butterfly! Indeed I know not if you sleep or feed. How motionless! - not frozen seas More motionless! and then What joy awaits you, when the breeze Hath found you out among the trees, And calls you forth again!
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The sightless Milton, with his hair Around his placid temples curled And Shakespeare at his side,-a freight, If clay could think and mind were weight, For him who bore the world!
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With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars.
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Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
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In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts bring sad thoughts to the mind.
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The flower that smells the sweetest is shy and lowly.
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Who, doomed to go in company with Pain And Fear and Bloodshed,-miserable train!- Turns his necessity to glorious gain.
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He who feels contempt for any living thing hath faculties that he hath never used, and thought with him is in its infancy.
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There's something in a flying horse, There's something in a huge balloon.
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Chains tie us down by land and sea And wishes, vain as mine, may be All that is left to comfort thee.
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Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray.
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Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence.
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For youthful faults ripe virtues shall atone.
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A few strong instincts and a few plain rules.
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Yet tears to human suffering are due And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown Are mourned by man, and not by man alone.
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The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.
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The monumental pomp of age Was with this goodly personage A stature undepressed in size, Unbent, which rather seemed to rise In open victory o'er the weight Of seventy years, to loftier height.
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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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Truth takes no account of centuries.
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Books are yours, Within whose silent chambers treasure lies Preserved from age to age more precious far Than that accumulated store of gold And orient gems, which, for a day of need, The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs. These hoards of truth you can unlock at will.
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