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Miss not the occasion by the forelock take that subtle power, the never-halting time.

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
Power
Forelock
Take
Halting
Never
Occasion
Time
Occasions
Subtle
Miss
Missing
Opportunity

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There is One great society alone on earth: The noble living and the noble dead.
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The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.
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He who feels contempt for any living thing hath faculties that he hath never used, and thought with him is in its infancy.
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I, methought, while the sweet breath of heaven Was blowing on my body, felt within A correspondent breeze, that gently moved With quickening virtue, but is now become A tempest, a redundant energy, Vexing its own creation.
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Yet tears to human suffering are due And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown Are mourned by man, and not by man alone.
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Stern daughter of the voice of God! O Duty! if that name thou love Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring and reprove.
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Action is transitory, a step, a blow, The motion of a muscle, this way or that, 'Tis done--And in the after-vacancy, We wonder at ourselves, like men betrayed.
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The harvest of a quiet eye, That broods and sleeps on his own 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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She was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight, A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament Her eyes as stars of twilight fair, Like twilights too her dusky hair, But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn.
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Thou unassuming common-place of Nature, with that homely face.
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Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect
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How does the Meadow flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free down to its root, and in that freedom bold.
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.
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Yon foaming flood seems motionless as iceIts dizzy turbulence eludes the eye,Frozen by distance.
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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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Father! - to God himself we cannot give a holier name.
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Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.
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