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One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave.

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
Would
Peep
Motherhood
Grave
Graves
Upon
Mother

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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 travelled among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea Nor England! did I know till then What love I bore to thee.
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Golf is a day spent in a round of strenuous idleness.
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Departing summer hath assumed An aspect tenderly illumed, The gentlest look of spring That calls from yonder leafy shade Unfaded, yet prepared to fade, A timely carolling.
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Sweet childish days, that were as long, As twenty days are now.
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A youth to whom was given So much of earth, so much of heaven.
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Huge and mighty forms that do not live like living men, moved slowly through the mind by day and were trouble to my dreams.
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It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the sea: Listen! the mighty being is awake, And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thundereverlastingly.
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Now when the primrose makes a splendid show, And lilies face the March-winds in full blow, And humbler growths as moved with one desire Put on, to welcome spring, their best attire, Poor Robin is yet flowerless but how gay With his red stalks upon this sunny day!
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That blessed mood in which the burthen of the mystery, in which the heavy and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world is lightened.
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Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity.
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The education of circumstances is superior to that of tuition.
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By happy chance we saw A twofold image: on a grassy bank A snow-white ram, and in the crystal flood Another and the same!
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The child is the father of man.
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The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.
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The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone
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The moving accident is not my trade To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.
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