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

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The thought of our past years in me doth breed perpetual benedictions.
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A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free.
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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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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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My apprehension comes in crowds, I dread the rustling of the grass, The very shadows of the clouds, Have power to shake me as they pass, I question things and do not find, one that will answer to my mind, And all the world appears unkind.
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O dearer far than light and life are dear.
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Ten thousand saw I at a glance, tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
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The Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose.
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Imagination is the means of deep insight and sympathy, the power to conceive and express images removed from normal objective reality.
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And I am happy when I sing.
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Nature's old felicities.
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.
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Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep/ Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind.
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The child is father of the man: And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
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Behold the Child among his new-born blisses A six years' Darling of a pigmy size! See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly-learned art.
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But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.
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The childhood of today is the manhood of tomorrow
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That inward eye/ Which is the bliss of solitude.
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The harvest of a quiet eye, That broods and sleeps on his own heart.
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The soft blue sky did never melt Into his heart he never felt The witchery of the soft blue sky!
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