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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
Feel
Bigotry
Feels
Continued
Long
Honorable
Something
Gratitude
Men
Objects
Please
Wealth
Money
Habitual

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The common growth of Mother Earth Suffices me,-her tears, her mirth, Her humblest mirth and tears.
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Wisdom married to immortal verse.
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O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive!
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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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Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity.
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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. Enough of Science and of Art Close up these barren leaves Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives.
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A few strong instincts and a few plain rules.
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Come grow old with me. The best is yet to be.
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A Primrose by a river's brim A yellow primrose was to him And it was something more.
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Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
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Pictures deface walls more often than they decorate them.
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Poetry is emotion recollected in tranquillity.
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On a fair prospect some have looked, And felt, as I have heard them say, As if the moving time had been A thing as steadfast as the scene On which they gazed themselves away.
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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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His love was like the liberal air, embracing all, to cheer and bless.
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