Quote

A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light

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
Light
Planned
Stills
Bright
Still
Command
Something
Angel
Comfort
Perfect
Nobly
Woman
Angelic
Spirit
Warn

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Laying out grounds may be considered a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.
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Stay, little cheerful Robin! stay, And at my casement sing, Though it should prove a farewell lay And this our parting spring. * * * * * Then, little Bird, this boon confer, Come, and my requiem sing, Nor fail to be the harbinger Of everlasting spring.
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Books are yours, Within whose silent chambers treasure lies Preserved from age to age more precious far Than that accumulated store of gold And orient gems, which, for a day of need, The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs. These hoards of truth you can unlock at will.
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my brain Worked with a dim and undetermined sense Of unknown modes of being o'er my thoughts There hung a darkness, call it solitude Or blank desertion.
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Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close upon the growing boy.
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I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough, along the mountain-side. By our own spirits we are deified We Poets in our youth begin in gladness, But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
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The mind that is wise mourns less for what age takes away than what it leaves behind.
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Or shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.
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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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There is a luxury in self-dispraise And inward self-disparagement affords To meditative spleen a grateful feast.
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Brothers all In honour, as in one community, Scholars and gentlemen.
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She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be But she is in her grave, and oh The difference to me!
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For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity.
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Science appears but what in truth she is, Not as our glory and our absolute boast, But as a succedaneum, and a prop To our infirmity.
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Those old credulities, to Nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock Of history?
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Laying out grounds... may be considered as a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.... it is to assist Nature in moving the affections... the affections of those who have the deepest perception of the beauty of Nature.
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Great God! I'd rather be a Pagan.
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Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.
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Wild is the music of autumnal winds Amongst the faded woods.
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The clouds that gather round the setting sun, Do take a sober colouring from an eye, That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality.
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