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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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Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.
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Sweet is the lore which Nature brings Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: We murder to dissect.
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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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And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.
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I look for ghosts but none will force Their way to me. 'Tis falsely said That there was ever intercourse Between the living and the dead.
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A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by One after one the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky - I've thought of all by turns, and still I lie Sleepless.
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My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began So is it now I am a man So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! The Child is father of the Man I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
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The flower that smells the sweetest is shy and lowly.
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Hope smiled when your nativity was cast, Children of Summer!
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And he is oft the wisest manWho is not wise at all.
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Or shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.
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And what if thou, sweet May, hast known Mishap by worm and blight If expectations newly blown Have perished in thy sight If loves and joys, while up they sprung, Were caught as in a snare Such is the lot of all the young, However bright and fair.
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O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?
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For mightier far Than strength of nerve or sinew, or the sway Of magic potent over sun and star, Is love, though oft to agony distrest, And though his favourite be feeble woman's breast.
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Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
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The soft blue sky did never melt Into his heart he never felt The witchery of the soft blue sky!
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But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.
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I am already kindly disposed towards you. My friendship it is not in my power to give: this is a gift which no man can make, it is not in our own power: a sound and healthy friendship is the growth of time and circumstance, it will spring up and thrive like a wildflower when these favour, and when they do not, it is in vain to look for it.
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The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration.
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Truth takes no account of centuries.
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