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The child is the father of man.

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
Men
Child
Father
Children

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And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.
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Not in Utopia, -- subterranean fields, --Or some secreted island, Heaven knows whereBut in the very world, which is the worldOf all of us, -- the place where in the endWe find our happiness, or not at all
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the Mind of Man-- My haunt, and the main region of my song.
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How is it that you live, and what is it you do?
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One with more of soul in his face than words on his tongue.
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Pleasures newly found are sweet When they lie about our feet.
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But how can he expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?
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Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill The Ploughboy is whooping — anon — anon! There's joy in the mountains: There's life in the fountains Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing The rain is over and gone.
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Pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.
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A simple child. That lightly draws its breath. And feels its life in every limb. What should it know of death?
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Brothers all In honour, as in one community, Scholars and gentlemen.
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Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.
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The moving accident is not my trade To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.
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A youth to whom was given So much of earth, so much of heaven.
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A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free.
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The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone
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The daisy, by the shadow that it casts, Protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun.
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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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A light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove.
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Nor will I then thy modest grace forget, Chaste Snow-drop, venturous harbinger of Spring, And pensive monitor of fleeting years!
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