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Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares!- The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays.

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
Pure
Delight
Truth
Loves
Nobler
Earth
Praise
Heirs
Care
Eternity
Blessings
Made
Blessing
Cares
Love
Gave
Poets
Poet
Heavenly
Eternal
Lays

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Ten thousand saw I at a glance, tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
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We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
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There is a luxury in self-dispraise And inward self-disparagement affords To meditative spleen a grateful feast.
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In heaven above, And earth below, they best can serve true gladness Who meet most feelingly the calls of sadness.
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Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.
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My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began So is it now I am a man So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! The Child is father of the Man I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
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Yon foaming flood seems motionless as iceIts dizzy turbulence eludes the eye,Frozen by distance.
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A light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove.
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A multitude of causes unknown to former times are now acting with a combined force to blunt the discriminating powers of the mind, and unfitting it for all voluntary exertion to reduce it to a state of almost savage torpor.
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Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.
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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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Truth takes no account of centuries.
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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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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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Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
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For mightier far Than strength of nerve or sinew, or the sway Of magic potent over sun and star, Is love, though oft to agony distrest, And though his favourite be feeble woman's breast.
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Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.
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The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.
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My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard.
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