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

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O dearer far than light and life are dear.
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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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Me this uncharted freedom tires I feel the weight of chance desires, My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same.
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The very flowers are sacred to the poor.
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In ourselves our safety must be sought. By our own right hand it must be wrought.
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She was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight, A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament Her eyes as stars of twilight fair, Like twilights too her dusky hair, But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn.
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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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That inward eye/ Which is the bliss of solitude.
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When men change swords for ledgers, and desert The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed I had, my Country--am I to be blamed?
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We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
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Delivered from the galling yoke of time.
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Rest and be thankful.
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And mighty poets in their misery dead.
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Since thy return, through days and weeks Of hope that grew by stealth, How many wan and faded cheeks Have kindled into health! The Old, by thee revived, have said, 'Another year is ours' And wayworn Wanderers, poorly fed, Have smiled upon thy flowers.
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The fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.
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Babylon, Learned and wise, hath perished utterly, Nor leaves her speech one word to aid the sigh That would lament her.
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The Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society.
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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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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.
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The childhood of today is the manhood of tomorrow
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