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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.
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
Often
Grating
Stills
Subdue
Power
Ample
Still
Harsh
Music
Hearing
Humans
Humanity
Though
Times
Chasten
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Shalt show us how divine a thing A woman may be made.
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Love betters what is best
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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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Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee! . . . . . . Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart: So didst thou travel on life's common way In cheerful godliness.
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A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by One after one the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky - I've thought of all by turns, and still I lie Sleepless.
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The softest breeze to fairest flowers gives birth: Think not that Prudence dwells in dark abodes, She scans the future with the eye of gods.
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Chains tie us down by land and sea And wishes, vain as mine, may be All that is left to comfort thee.
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There is a comfort in the strength of love 'Twill make a thing endurable, which else would overset the brain, or break the heart.
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His high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright.
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Two voices are there one is of the sea, One of the mountains: each a mighty Voice.
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She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.
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Since thy return, through days and weeks Of hope that grew by stealth, How many wan and faded cheeks Have kindled into health! The Old, by thee revived, have said, 'Another year is ours' And wayworn Wanderers, poorly fed, Have smiled upon thy flowers.
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Bright gem instinct with music, vocal spark.
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In ourselves our safety must be sought. By our own right hand it must be wrought.
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Society became my glittering bride, And airy hopes my children.
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We bow our heads before Thee, and we laud, And magnify thy name Almighty God! But man is thy most awful instrument, In working out a pure intent.
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She gave me eyes, she gave me ears And humble cares, and delicate fears A heart, the fountain of sweet tears And love and thought and joy.
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The childhood of today is the manhood of tomorrow
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