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One in whom persuasion and belief Had ripened into faith, and faith become A passionate intuition.

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
Intuition
Passionate
Divine
Belief
Faith
Become
Ripened
Persuasion

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And when the stream Which overflowed the soul was passed away, A consciousness remained that it had left Deposited upon the silent shore Of memory images and precious thoughts That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed.
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I travelled among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea Nor England! did I know till then What love I bore to thee.
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A babe, by intercourse of touch I held mute dialogues with my Mother's heart.
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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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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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Plain living and high thinking are no more. The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone our peace, our fearful innocence, And pure religion breathing household laws.
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Poetry is emotion recollected in tranquillity.
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At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.
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Worse than idle is compassion if it ends in tears and sighs.
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Behold the Child among his new-born blisses A six years' Darling of a pigmy size! See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly-learned art.
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Write to me frequently & the longest letters possible never mind whether you have facts or no to communicate fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
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We murder to dissect.
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I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, wherever nature led.
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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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Ah, what a warning for a thoughtless man, Could field or grove, could any spot of earth, Show to his eye an image of the pangs Which it hath witnessed,-render back an echo Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod!
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Lady of the Mere, Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.
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True beauty dwells in deep retreats, Whose veil is unremoved Till heart with heart in concord beats, And the lover is beloved.
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O dearer far than light and life are dear.
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Love betters what is best
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Take the sweet poetry of life away, and what remains behind?
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