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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
Natural
Pain
May
Sorrow
Loss

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The vision and the faculty divine Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse.
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The earth was all before me. With a heart Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty, I look about and should the chosen guide Be nothing better than a wandering cloud, I cannot miss my way.
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As in the eye of Nature he has lived, So in the eye of Nature let him die!
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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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The intellectual power, through words and things, Went sounding on a dim and perilous way!
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His love was like the liberal air, embracing all, to cheer and bless.
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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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Let the moon shine on the in thy solitary walk and let the misty mountain-winds be free to blow against thee.
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Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect
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Where the statue stood Of Newton, with his prism and silent face, The marble index of a mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of thought alone.
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Wild is the music of autumnal winds Amongst the faded woods.
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A Briton even in love should be A subject, not a slave!
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Delight and liberty, the simple creed of childhood.
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Alas! how little can a moment show Of an eye where feeling plays In ten thousand dewy rays: A face o'er which a thousand shadows go!
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As generations come and go, Their arts, their customs, ebb and flow Fate, fortune, sweep strong powers away, And feeble, of themselves, decay.
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Sweet Mercy! to the gates of heaven This minstrel lead, his sins forgiven The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour, And memory of Earth's bitter leaven Effaced forever.
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A simple child. That lightly draws its breath. And feels its life in every limb. What should it know of death?
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A deep distress has humanised my soul.
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Either still I find Some imperfection in the chosen theme, Or see of absolute accomplishment Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself, That I recoil and droop, and seek repose In listlessness from vain perplexity, Unprofitably travelling towards the grave.
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In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard seat And birds and flowers once more to greet. . . .
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