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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Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, Let them live upon their praises.
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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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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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Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.
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That best portion of a man's life, his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love.
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Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity.
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On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, Musing is solitude
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I am already kindly disposed towards you. My friendship it is not in my power to give: this is a gift which no man can make, it is not in our own power: a sound and healthy friendship is the growth of time and circumstance, it will spring up and thrive like a wildflower when these favour, and when they do not, it is in vain to look for it.
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Where the statue stood Of Newton, with his prism and silent face, The marble index of a mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of thought alone.
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A tale in everything.
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I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough, along the mountain-side. By our own spirits we are deified We Poets in our youth begin in gladness, But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
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When from our better selves we have too long been parted by the hurrying world, and droop. Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, how gracious, how benign is solitude.
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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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