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What know we of the Blest above but that they sing, and that they love?

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
Blest
Sing
Love

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Because the good old rule Sufficeth them,-the simple plan, That they should take who have the power, And they should keep who can.
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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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A brotherhood of venerable trees.
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Yet sometimes, when the secret cup Of still and serious thought went round, It seemed as if he drank it up, He felt with spirit so profound.
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Golf is a day spent in a round of strenuous idleness.
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Bright was the summer's noon when quickening steps Followed each other till a dreary moor Was crossed, a bare ridge clomb, upon whose top Standing alone, as from a rampart's edge, I overlooked the bed of Windermere, Like a vast river, stretching in the sun.
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The Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society.
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I'll teach my boy the sweetest things I'll teach him how the owlet sings.
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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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Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, We feel that we are greater than we know.
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Sweet Mercy! to the gates of heaven This minstrel lead, his sins forgiven The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour, And memory of Earth's bitter leaven Effaced forever.
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It is the 1st mild day of March. Each minute sweeter than before... there is a blessing in the air.
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Death is the quiet haven of us all.
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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 streams with softest sound are flowing, The grass you almost hear it growing, You hear it now, if e'er you can.
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Hearing often-times the still, sad music of humanity, nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power to chasten and subdue.
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And he is oft the wisest manWho is not wise at all.
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Thou unassuming common-place of Nature, with that homely face.
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And now I see with eye serene, The very pulse of the machine. A being breathing thoughtful breaths, A traveler between life and death.
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