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

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But who, if he be called upon to face Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined Great issues, good or bad for humankind, Is happy as a lover.
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Books! tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it.
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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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A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light
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His high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright.
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This solitary Tree! a living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay Of form and aspect too magnificent To be destroyed.
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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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The budding rose above the rose full blown.
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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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The child is the father of man.
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Those old credulities, to Nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock Of history?
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Science appears but what in truth she is, Not as our glory and our absolute boast, But as a succedaneum, and a prop To our infirmity.
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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 mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone.
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And suddenly all your troubles melt away, all your worries are gone, and it is for no reason other than the look in your partner's eyes. Yes, sometimes life and love really is that simple.
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Heaven lies about us in our infancy.
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'T is hers to pluck the amaranthine flower Of faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower, And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.
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But who is innocent? By grace divine, Not otherwise,O Nature! we are thine.
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And what if thou, sweet May, hast known Mishap by worm and blight If expectations newly blown Have perished in thy sight If loves and joys, while up they sprung, Were caught as in a snare Such is the lot of all the young, However bright and fair.
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A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays And confident tomorrows.
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