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Heaven lies about us in our infancy.

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
Infancy
Lies
Baby
Heaven
Lying
Eulogy

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Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room And hermits are contented with their cells.
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And I am happy when I sing.
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Knowledge and increase of enduring joy From the great Nature that exists in works Of mighty Poets.
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Chains tie us down by land and sea And wishes, vain as mine, may be All that is left to comfort thee.
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The mind that is wise mourns less for what age takes away than what it leaves behind.
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Minds that have nothing to confer Find little to perceive.
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The budding rose above the rose full blown.
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Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretch'd in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
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Sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart.
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In spite of difference of soil and climate, of language and manners, of laws and customs-in spite of things silently gone out of mind, and things violently destroyed, the Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society, as it is spread over the whole earth, and over all time.
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My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard.
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But who would force the soul tilts with a straw Against a champion cased in adamant
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For all things are less dreadful than they seem.
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When his veering gait And every motion of his starry train Seem governed by a strain Of music, audible to him alone.
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Truth takes no account of centuries.
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Let beeves and home-bred kine partake The sweets of Burn-mill meadow The swan on still St. Mary's Lake Float double, swan and shadow!
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What know we of the Blest above but that they sing, and that they love?
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Whether we be young or old,Our destiny, our being's heart and home,Is with infinitude, and only thereWith hope it is, hope that can never die,Effort and expectation, and desire,And something evermore about to be.
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In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard seat And birds and flowers once more to greet. . . .
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Let the moon shine on the in thy solitary walk and let the misty mountain-winds be free to blow against thee.
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