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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
Motherhood
Grave
Graves
Upon
Mother
Would
Peep

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Not Chaos, not the darkest pit of lowest Erebus, nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out by help of dreams - can breed such fear and awe as fall upon us often when we look into our Minds, into the Mind of Man.
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The tears into his eyes were brought, And thanks and praises seemed to run So fast out of his heart, I thought They never would have done. -I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning Alas! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left me mourning.
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A power is passing from the earth.
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A Briton even in love should be A subject, not a slave!
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In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard seat And birds and flowers once more to greet. . . .
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Milton, thou should'st be living at this hour.
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One in whom persuasion and belief Had ripened into faith, and faith become A passionate intuition.
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And he is oft the wisest manWho is not wise at all.
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Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?
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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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My apprehension comes in crowds, I dread the rustling of the grass, The very shadows of the clouds, Have power to shake me as they pass, I question things and do not find, one that will answer to my mind, And all the world appears unkind.
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In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease and, of its joy secure, The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, And on the vacant air.
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Nature's old felicities.
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A great poet ought to a certain degree to rectify men's feelings... to render their feelings more sane, pure and permanent, in short, more consonant to Nature.
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I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, wherever nature led.
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Turning, for them who pass, the common dust Of servile opportunity to gold.
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But who would force the soul tilts with a straw Against a champion cased in adamant
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We live by Admiration, Hope, and Love And, even as these are well and wisely fixed, In dignity of being we ascend.
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Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet
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With an eye made quiet by the power of harmony, and the deep power of joy, we see into the life of things.
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