Quote

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect. Enough of Science and of Art Close up these barren leaves Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives.

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
Things
Bring
Intellect
Beauteous
Science
Murder
Dissect
Art
Brings
Lore
Nature
Forms
Meddling
Form
Shapes
Receives
Come
Close
Barren
Enough
Watches
Forth
Heart
Sweet
Leaves

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We must be free or die, who speak the tongue That Shakespeare spake the faith and morals hold Which Milton held.
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A lawyer art thou? Draw not nigh! Go, carry to some fitter place The keenness of that practised eye, The hardness of that sallow face.
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How many undervalue the power of simplicity ! But it is the real key to the heart.
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Tis said, fantastic ocean doth enfold The likeness of whate'er on land is seen.
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In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts bring sad thoughts to the mind.
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Love betters what is best
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In truth the prison, unto which we doom Ourselves, no prison is.
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But how can he expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?
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Since thy return, through days and weeks Of hope that grew by stealth, How many wan and faded cheeks Have kindled into health! The Old, by thee revived, have said, 'Another year is ours' And wayworn Wanderers, poorly fed, Have smiled upon thy flowers.
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Then blame not those who, by the mightiest lever Known to the moral world, Imagination.
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How is it that you live, and what is it you do?
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Books are yours, Within whose silent chambers treasure lies Preserved from age to age more precious far Than that accumulated store of gold And orient gems, which, for a day of need, The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs. These hoards of truth you can unlock at will.
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O Reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle Reader! you would find A tale in everything.
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One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.
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Stop thinking for once in your life!
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For nature then to me was all in all.
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Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill The Ploughboy is whooping — anon — anon! There's joy in the mountains: There's life in the fountains Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing The rain is over and gone.
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Pleasures newly found are sweet When they lie about our feet.
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We bow our heads before Thee, and we laud, And magnify thy name Almighty God! But man is thy most awful instrument, In working out a pure intent.
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