Quote

Often have I sighed to measure By myself a lonely pleasure,- Sighed to think I read a book, Only read, perhaps, by me.

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
Thinking
Measure
Lonely
Perhaps
Pleasure
Read
Often
Shunning
Book
Sighed
Think
Loneliness

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Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room And hermits are contented with their cells.
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Delight and liberty, the simple creed of childhood.
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He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.
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Faith is a passionate intuition.
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Shalt show us how divine a thing A woman may be made.
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There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream.
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Yon foaming flood seems motionless as iceIts dizzy turbulence eludes the eye,Frozen by distance.
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Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none / Look up a second time, and, one by one, / You mark them twinkling out with silvery light, / And wonder how they could elude the sight!
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I should dread to disfigure the beautiful ideal of the memories of illustrious persons with incongruous features, and to sully the imaginative purity of classical works with gross and trivial recollections.
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We murder to dissect.
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Habit rules the unreflecting herd.
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On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, Musing is solitude
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At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.
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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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my brain Worked with a dim and undetermined sense Of unknown modes of being o'er my thoughts There hung a darkness, call it solitude Or blank desertion.
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In truth the prison, unto which we doom Ourselves, no prison is.
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Not in Utopia, -- subterranean fields, --Or some secreted island, Heaven knows whereBut in the very world, which is the worldOf all of us, -- the place where in the endWe find our happiness, or not at all
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Two voices are there one is of the sea, One of the mountains: each a mighty Voice.
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Rest and be thankful.
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