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All men feel a habitual gratitude, and something of an honorable bigotry, for the objects which have long continued to please them.
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
Objects
Please
Wealth
Money
Habitual
Feel
Bigotry
Feels
Continued
Long
Honorable
Something
Gratitude
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These hoards of wealth you can unlock at will.
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Scorn not the sonnet. Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart.
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Departing summer hath assumed An aspect tenderly illumed, The gentlest look of spring That calls from yonder leafy shade Unfaded, yet prepared to fade, A timely carolling.
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Dreams, books, are each a world.
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The intellectual power, through words and things, Went sounding on a dim and perilous way!
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Hope smiled when your nativity was cast, Children of Summer!
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The daisy, by the shadow that it casts, Protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun.
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The light that never was, on sea or land The consecration, and the Poet's dream.
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The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, An appetite a feeling and a love that had no need of a remoter charm by thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.
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How fast has brother followed brother, From sunshine to the sunless land!
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Give unto me, made lowly wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice The confidence of reason give, And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live!
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Since every mortal power of Coleridge Was frozen at its marvellous source, The rapt one, of the godlike forehead, The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth: And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, Has vanished from his lonely hearth.
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Pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.
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Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher.
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Wrongs unredressed, or insults unavenged.
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Spade! Thou art a tool of honor in my hands. I press thee, through a yielding soil, with pride.
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Delivered from the galling yoke of time.
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The child shall become father to the man.
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Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
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Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge - it is as immortal as the heart of man.
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