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Nor less I deem that there are Powers Which of themselves our minds impress That we can feed this mind of ours In a wise passiveness

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
Divine
Wise
Less
Passiveness
Mind
Deem
Impress
Feed
Powers
Minds

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Wisdom sits with children round her knees.
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A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard... Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.
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That mighty orb of song, The divine Milton.
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The Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose.
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There is One great society alone on earth: The noble living and the noble dead.
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Poetry is emotion recollected in tranquillity.
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Or shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.
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Men who can hear the Decalogue, and feel To self-reproach.
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Love betters what is best
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Those old credulities, to Nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock Of history?
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For youthful faults ripe virtues shall atone.
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I am already kindly disposed towards you. My friendship it is not in my power to give: this is a gift which no man can make, it is not in our own power: a sound and healthy friendship is the growth of time and circumstance, it will spring up and thrive like a wildflower when these favour, and when they do not, it is in vain to look for it.
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In spite of difference of soil and climate, of language and manners, of laws and customs-in spite of things silently gone out of mind, and things violently destroyed, the Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society, as it is spread over the whole earth, and over all time.
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Miss not the occasion by the forelock take that subtle power, the never-halting time.
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But trailing clouds of glory do we come, From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy!.
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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 soft blue sky did never melt Into his heart he never felt The witchery of the soft blue sky!
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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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What are fears but voices airy? Whispering harm where harm is not. And deluding the unwary Till the fatal bolt is shot!
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I have felt a presence that disturbs me with the joy of elevated thoughts a sense sublime of something far more deeply interfused, whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, and the round ocean, and the living air, and the blue sky, and in the mind of man.
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