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

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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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Turning, for them who pass, the common dust Of servile opportunity to gold.
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Monastic brotherhood, upon rock Aerial.
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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 mighty orb of song, The divine Milton.
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Come grow old with me. The best is yet to be.
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Books! tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it.
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Dreams, books, are each a world and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow.
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Sweet Mercy! to the gates of heaven This minstrel lead, his sins forgiven The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour, And memory of Earth's bitter leaven Effaced forever.
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As high as we have mounted in delight, In our dejection do we sink as low.
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The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.
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Thou has left behind Powers that will work for thee,-air, earth, and skies! There 's not a breathing of the common wind That will forget thee thou hast great allies Thy friends are exultations, agonies, And love, and man's unconquerable mind.
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This solitary Tree! a living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay Of form and aspect too magnificent To be destroyed.
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In spite of difference of soil and climate, of language and manners, of laws and customs-in spite of things silently gone out of mind, and things violently destroyed, the Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society, as it is spread over the whole earth, and over all time.
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The eye— it cannot choose but see we cannot bid the ear be still our bodies feel, where'er they be, against or with our will.
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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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The unconquerable pang of despised love.
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Great is the glory, for the strife is hard!
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Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?
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