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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
Children
Men
Child
Father

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For by superior energies more strict affiance in each other faith more firm in their unhallowed principles, the bad have fairly earned a victory over the weak, the vacillating, inconsistent good.
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Recognizes ever and anon The breeze of Nature stirring in his soul.
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The best of what we do and are, Just God, forgive!
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A babe, by intercourse of touch I held mute dialogues with my Mother's heart.
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Bright gem instinct with music, vocal spark.
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What is good for a bootless bene? With these dark words begins my tale And their meaning is, Whence can comfort spring When prayer is of no avail?
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Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray.
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At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.
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Plain living and high thinking are no more.
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Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will Dear God! the very houses seem asleep And all that mighty heart is lying still!
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His high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright.
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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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From the body of one guilty deed a thousand ghostly fears and haunting thoughts proceed.
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The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.
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Monastic brotherhood, upon rock Aerial.
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Truths that wake To perish never
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Free as a bird to settle where I will.
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We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted.
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Every great and original writer, in proportion as he is great and original, must himself create the taste by which he is to be relished.
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'T is hers to pluck the amaranthine flower Of faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower, And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.
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