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The vision and the faculty divine Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse.

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
Vision
Verse
Verses
Divinity
Faculty
Accomplishment
Wanting
Divine

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Every gift of noble origin Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath.
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Small service is true service, while it lasts.
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While all the future, for thy purer soul, With sober certainties of love is blest.
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All men feel a habitual gratitude, and something of an honorable bigotry, for the objects which have long continued to please them.
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How many undervalue the power of simplicity ! But it is the real key to the heart.
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Meek Walton's heavenly memory.
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But an old age serene and bright, and lovely as a Lapland night, shall lead thee to thy grave.
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Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower.
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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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By all means sometimes be alone salute thyself see what thy soul doth wear dare to look in thy chest and tumble up and down what thou findest there.
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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.
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What is good for a bootless bene? With these dark words begins my tale And their meaning is, Whence can comfort spring When prayer is of no avail?
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Miss not the occasion by the forelock take that subtle power, the never-halting time.
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Bright was the summer's noon when quickening steps Followed each other till a dreary moor Was crossed, a bare ridge clomb, upon whose top Standing alone, as from a rampart's edge, I overlooked the bed of Windermere, Like a vast river, stretching in the sun.
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Choice word and measured phrase above the reach Of ordinary men.
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Great is the glory, for the strife is hard!
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Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none / Look up a second time, and, one by one, / You mark them twinkling out with silvery light, / And wonder how they could elude the sight!
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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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For youthful faults ripe virtues shall atone.
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A cheerful life is what the Muses love. A soaring spirit is their prime delight.
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