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

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From the body of one guilty deed a thousand ghostly fears and haunting thoughts proceed.
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Books are the best type of the influence of the past.
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Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry and these we adore Plain living and high thinking are no more.
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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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With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars.
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A mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone.
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One in whom persuasion and belief Had ripened into faith, and faith become A passionate intuition.
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With little here to do or see Of things that in the great world be, Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee For thou art worthy, Thou unassuming commonplace Of Nature, with that homely face, And yet with something of a grace Which love makes for thee!
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my brain Worked with a dim and undetermined sense Of unknown modes of being o'er my thoughts There hung a darkness, call it solitude Or blank desertion.
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Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.
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While all the future, for thy purer soul, With sober certainties of love is blest.
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For by superior energies more strict affiance in each other faith more firm in their unhallowed principles, the bad have fairly earned a victory over the weak, the vacillating, inconsistent good.
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Departing summer hath assumed An aspect tenderly illumed, The gentlest look of spring That calls from yonder leafy shade Unfaded, yet prepared to fade, A timely carolling.
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Plain living and high thinking are no more. The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone our peace, our fearful innocence, And pure religion breathing household laws.
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The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration.
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Mark the babe not long accustomed to this breathing world One that hath barely learned to shape a smile, though yet irrational of soul, to grasp with tiny finger - to let fall a tear And, as the heavy cloud of sleep dissolves, To stretch his limbs, becoming, as might seem. The outward functions of intelligent man.
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He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.
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And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore.
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The thought of death sits easy on the man Who has been born and dies among the mountains.
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