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Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain That has been, and may be again.

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
Sorrow
Loss
Natural
Pain
May

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When his veering gait And every motion of his starry train Seem governed by a strain Of music, audible to him alone.
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Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray.
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Turning, for them who pass, the common dust Of servile opportunity to gold.
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Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither.
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He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.
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The flower that smells the sweetest is shy and lowly.
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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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The mind of man is a thousand times more beautiful than the earth on which he dwells.
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And I am happy when I sing.
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Earth helped him with the cry of blood.
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Memories... images and precious thoughts that shall not die and cannot be destroyed.
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Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge - it is as immortal as the heart of man.
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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 daisy, by the shadow that it casts, Protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun.
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Plain living and high thinking are no more. The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone our peace, our fearful innocence, And pure religion breathing household laws.
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There is creation in the eye.
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I, methought, while the sweet breath of heaven Was blowing on my body, felt within A correspondent breeze, that gently moved With quickening virtue, but is now become A tempest, a redundant energy, Vexing its own creation.
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Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretch'd in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
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Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn
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