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Give unto me, made lowly wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice The confidence of reason give, And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live!

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
Wise
Made
Spirit
Light
Truth
Give
Lowly
Reason
Unto
Live
Confidence
Self
Sacrifice

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Turning, for them who pass, the common dust Of servile opportunity to gold.
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This City now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie Open unto the fields and to the sky All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
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There is One great society alone on earth: The noble living and the noble dead.
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One in whom persuasion and belief Had ripened into faith, and faith become A passionate intuition.
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The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.
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A genial hearth, a hospitable board, and a refined rusticity.
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Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.
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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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Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.
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Burn all the statutes and their shelves: They stir us up against our kind And worse, against ourselves.
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The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone
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The budding rose above the rose full blown.
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Happier of happy though I be, like them I cannot take possession of the sky, mount with a thoughtless impulse, and wheel there, one of a mighty multitude whose way and motion is a harmony and dance magnificent.
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I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough, along the mountain-side. By our own spirits we are deified We Poets in our youth begin in gladness, But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
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She gave me eyes, she gave me ears And humble cares, and delicate fears A heart, the fountain of sweet tears And love and thought and joy.
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Worse than idle is compassion if it ends in tears and sighs.
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His high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright.
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To be young was very heaven!
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