Quote

The tears into his eyes were brought, And thanks and praises seemed to run So fast out of his heart, I thought They never would have done. -I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning Alas! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left me mourning.

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
Heart
Eyes
Seemed
Praises
Kind
Eye
Fast
Unkind
Never
Running
Gratitude
Returning
Would
Left
Brought
Mourning
Men
Thought
Praise
Alas
Stills
Hearts
Hath
Still
Tears
Thanks
Oftener
Done
Heard
Deeds
Coldness

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As high as we have mounted in delight, In our dejection do we sink as low.
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But an old age serene and bright, and lovely as a Lapland night, shall lead thee to thy grave.
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Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.
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The memory of the just survives in Heaven.
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the Mind of Man-- My haunt, and the main region of my song.
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But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.
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The moving accident is not my trade To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.
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In heaven above, And earth below, they best can serve true gladness Who meet most feelingly the calls of sadness.
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His high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright.
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And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.
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Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.
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Up! up! my friend, and quit your books, Or surely you 'll grow double! Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks! Why all this toil and trouble?
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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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Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.
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He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.
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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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By all means sometimes be alone salute thyself see what thy soul doth wear dare to look in thy chest and tumble up and down what thou findest there.
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We Poets in our youth begin in gladness But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
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Therefore am I still a lover of the meadows and the woods, and mountains and of all that we behold from this green earth.
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Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters.
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