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Since every mortal power of Coleridge Was frozen at its marvellous source, The rapt one, of the godlike forehead, The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth: And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, Has vanished from his lonely hearth.
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
Every
Lonely
Lambs
Hearth
Creatures
Eyed
Godlike
Source
Frozen
Lamb
Sleep
Mortal
Vanished
Since
Creature
Sleeps
Heaven
Mortals
Marvellous
Coleridge
Power
Gentle
Forehead
Frolic
Earth
Loneliness
Foreheads
Rapt
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Bright gem instinct with music, vocal spark.
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Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray.
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Of friends, however humble, scorn not one.
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The childhood of today is the manhood of tomorrow
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The soft blue sky did never melt Into his heart he never felt The witchery of the soft blue sky!
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Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there In happier beauty more pellucid streams, An ampler ether, a diviner air, And fields invested with purpureal gleams.
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I have felt a presence that disturbs me with the joy of elevated thoughts a sense sublime of something far more deeply interfused, whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, and the round ocean, and the living air, and the blue sky, and in the mind of man.
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Often have I sighed to measure By myself a lonely pleasure,- Sighed to think I read a book, Only read, perhaps, by me.
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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.
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The sightless Milton, with his hair Around his placid temples curled And Shakespeare at his side,-a freight, If clay could think and mind were weight, For him who bore the world!
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The mysteries that cups of flowers infold And all the gorgeous sights which fairies do behold.
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What is pride? A rocket that emulates the stars.
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But who is innocent? By grace divine, Not otherwise,O Nature! we are thine.
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the Mind of Man-- My haunt, and the main region of my song.
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Write to me frequently & the longest letters possible never mind whether you have facts or no to communicate fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
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Poetry is the outcome of emotions recollected in tranquility.
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That mighty orb of song, The divine Milton.
William Wordsworth
But an old age serene and bright, and lovely as a Lapland night, shall lead thee to thy grave.
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Stop thinking for once in your life!
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Spires whose silent finger points to heaven.
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