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Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.

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
Never
Meanest
Blend
Sorrow
Pride
Pleasure
Feels
Thing

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The child is the father of man.
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Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade Of that which once was great is passed away.
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These hoards of wealth you can unlock at will.
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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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Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?
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Not in Utopia, -- subterranean fields, --Or some secreted island, Heaven knows whereBut in the very world, which is the worldOf all of us, -- the place where in the endWe find our happiness, or not at all
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If the time should ever come when what is now called Science, thus famliarised to men, shall be ready to put on, as it were, a form of flesh and blood, the Poet will lend his divine spirit to the aid the transfiguration, and will welcome the Being thus produced, as a dear and genuine inmate of the household of man.
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The memory of the just survives in Heaven.
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Primroses, the Spring may love them Summer knows but little of them.
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Let beeves and home-bred kine partake The sweets of Burn-mill meadow The swan on still St. Mary's Lake Float double, swan and shadow!
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The education of circumstances is superior to that of tuition.
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And the most difficult of tasks to keep Heights which the soul is competent to gain.
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There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream.
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Give all thou canst high Heaven rejects the lore of nicely-caluculated less or more.
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I'll teach my boy the sweetest things I'll teach him how the owlet sings.
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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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For oft, when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood they flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude
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His high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright.
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