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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
Pleasure
Feels
Thing
Never
Meanest
Blend
Sorrow
Pride

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We murder to dissect.
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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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A famous man is Robin Hood, The English ballad-singer's joy.
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Primroses, the Spring may love them Summer knows but little of them.
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Before us lay a painful road, And guidance have I sought in duteous love From Wisdom's heavenly Father. Hence hath flowed Patience, with trust that, whatsoe'er the way Each takes in this high matter, all may move Cheered with the prospect of a brighter day.
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Faith is, necessary to explain anything, and to reconcile the foreknowledge of God with human evil.
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That to this mountain-daisy's self were known The beauty of its star-shaped shadow, thrown On the smooth surface of this naked stone!
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In years that bring the philosophic mind.
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Habit rules the unreflecting herd.
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Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, We feel that we are greater than we know.
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Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry and these we adore Plain living and high thinking are no more.
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Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.
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Who, doomed to go in company with Pain And Fear and Bloodshed,-miserable train!- Turns his necessity to glorious gain.
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The streams with softest sound are flowing, The grass you almost hear it growing, You hear it now, if e'er you can.
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The fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.
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The education of circumstances is superior to that of tuition.
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Be mild, and cleave to gentle things, thy glory and thy happiness be there.
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Recognizes ever and anon The breeze of Nature stirring in his soul.
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