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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
Gratitude
Blessing
Full
Kids
Behold
Thanksgiving
Blessings

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The streams with softest sound are flowing, The grass you almost hear it growing, You hear it now, if e'er you can.
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The intellectual power, through words and things, Went sounding on a dim and perilous way!
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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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O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?
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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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Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows Like harmony in music there is a dark Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles Discordant elements, makes them cling together In one society.
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I, methought, while the sweet breath of heaven Was blowing on my body, felt within A correspondent breeze, that gently moved With quickening virtue, but is now become A tempest, a redundant energy, Vexing its own creation.
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But hushed be every thought that springs From out the bitterness of things.
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Death is the quiet haven of us all.
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The wealthiest man among us is the best
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The mysteries that cups of flowers infold And all the gorgeous sights which fairies do behold.
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Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.
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Now when the primrose makes a splendid show, And lilies face the March-winds in full blow, And humbler growths as moved with one desire Put on, to welcome spring, their best attire, Poor Robin is yet flowerless but how gay With his red stalks upon this sunny day!
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The mind of man is a thousand times more beautiful than the earth on which he dwells.
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The very flowers are sacred to the poor.
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Golf is a day spent in a round of strenuous idleness.
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Whether we be young or old,Our destiny, our being's heart and home,Is with infinitude, and only thereWith hope it is, hope that can never die,Effort and expectation, and desire,And something evermore about to be.
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A mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone.
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