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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.

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
Mind
Moved
Men
Dreams
Like
Huge
Trouble
Living
Dream
Mighty
Form
Slowly
Live
Forms

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A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
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The education of circumstances is superior to that of tuition.
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Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind--But how could I forget thee?
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The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink I heard a voice it said Drink, pretty creature, drink'
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Sad fancies do we then affect, In luxury of disrespect To our own prodigal excess Of too familiar happiness.
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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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But to a higher mark than song can reach, Rose this pure eloquence.
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The ocean is a mighty harmonist.
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Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower.
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With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars.
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Bright flower! whose home is everywhere Bold in maternal nature's care And all the long year through the heir Of joy or sorrow, Methinks that there abides in thee Some concord with humanity, Given to no other flower I see The forest through.
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Men who can hear the Decalogue, and feel To self-reproach.
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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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Type of the wise who soar but never roam, True to the kindred points of heaven and home.
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In truth the prison, unto which we doom Ourselves, no prison is.
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Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay, And could not win thee, Sleep, by any stealth: So do not let me wear to-night away. Without thee what is all the morning's wealth? Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
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There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a 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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Not Chaos, not the darkest pit of lowest Erebus, nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out by help of dreams - can breed such fear and awe as fall upon us often when we look into our Minds, into the Mind of Man.
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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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