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Pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.

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
Giving
Gifts
Whoever
Spread
Shall
Pleasure
Happiness
Earth
Stray
Find
Claimed

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No motion has she now, no force she neither hears nor sees rolled around in earth's diurnal course, with rocks, and stones, and trees.
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Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.
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Chains tie us down by land and sea And wishes, vain as mine, may be All that is left to comfort thee.
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The harvest of a quiet eye, That broods and sleeps on his own heart.
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The stars of midnight shall be dear To her and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face.
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I should dread to disfigure the beautiful ideal of the memories of illustrious persons with incongruous features, and to sully the imaginative purity of classical works with gross and trivial recollections.
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Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.
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Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion.
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A lawyer art thou? Draw not nigh! Go, carry to some fitter place The keenness of that practised eye, The hardness of that sallow face.
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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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For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity.
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Every gift of noble origin Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath.
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The softest breeze to fairest flowers gives birth: Think not that Prudence dwells in dark abodes, She scans the future with the eye of gods.
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A simple child. That lightly draws its breath. And feels its life in every limb. What should it know of death?
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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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Far from the world I walk, and from all care.
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The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, An appetite a feeling and a love that had no need of a remoter charm by thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.
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Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?
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We must be free or die, who speak the tongue That Shakespeare spake the faith and morals hold Which Milton held.
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The Eagle, he was lord above
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