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A famous man is Robin Hood, The English ballad-singer's joy.

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
Fame
Robins
Joy
Robin
Men
Ballads
Hood
Singer
Singers
Famous
English
Ballad

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Careless of books, yet having felt the power Of Nature, by the gentle agency Of natural objects, led me on to feel For passions that were not my own, and think (At random and imperfectly indeed) On man, the heart of man, and human life.
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Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?
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Wisdom is oftentimes nearer when we stoop than when we soar.
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Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will Dear God! the very houses seem asleep And all that mighty heart is lying still!
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Laying out grounds... may be considered as a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.... it is to assist Nature in moving the affections... the affections of those who have the deepest perception of the beauty of Nature.
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The clouds that gather round the setting sun, Do take a sober colouring from an eye, That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality.
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The mysteries that cups of flowers infold And all the gorgeous sights which fairies do behold.
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Oh for a single hour of that Dundee Who on that day the word of onset gave!
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Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.
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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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Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares!- The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays.
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Poetry is emotion recollected in tranquillity.
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The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.
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Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.
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Spade! Thou art a tool of honor in my hands. I press thee, through a yielding soil, with pride.
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Father! - to God himself we cannot give a holier name.
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Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade Of that which once was great is passed away.
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One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave.
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Two voices are there one is of the sea, One of the mountains: each a mighty Voice.
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On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, Musing is solitude
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