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For by superior energies more strict affiance in each other faith more firm in their unhallowed principles, the bad have fairly earned a victory over the weak, the vacillating, inconsistent good.
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
Principles
Strict
Faith
Fairly
Energy
Superior
Good
Superiors
Unhallowed
Firm
Vacillating
Defeat
Inconsistent
Victory
Energies
Weak
Earned
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A youth to whom was given So much of earth, so much of heaven.
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Yon foaming flood seems motionless as iceIts dizzy turbulence eludes the eye,Frozen by distance.
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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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The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration.
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The first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
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Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive But to be young was very heaven.
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The Eagle, he was lord above
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In modern business it is not the crook who is to be feared most, it is the honest man who doesn't know what he is doing.
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A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays And confident tomorrows.
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Hearing often-times the still, sad music of humanity, nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power to chasten and subdue.
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The ocean is a mighty harmonist.
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The very flowers are sacred to the poor.
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The mysteries that cups of flowers infold And all the gorgeous sights which fairies do behold.
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The wind, a sightless laborer, whistles at his task.
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The thought of death sits easy on the man Who has been born and dies among the mountains.
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A Primrose by a river's brim A yellow primrose was to him And it was something more.
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He loves not well whose love is bold! I would not have thee come too nigh. The sun's gold would not seem pure gold Unless the sun were in the sky: To take him thence and chain him near Would make his beauty disappear. William Winter, Love's Queen. The unconquerable pang of despised love.
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And when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet whence he blew Soul-animating strains,-alas! too few.
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Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows Like harmony in music there is a dark Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles Discordant elements, makes them cling together In one society.
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When his veering gait And every motion of his starry train Seem governed by a strain Of music, audible to him alone.
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