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That blessed mood in which the burthen of the mystery, in which the heavy and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world is lightened.
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
Mood
Heavy
Blessed
Weight
Mystery
Burthen
Light
Lightened
World
Unintelligible
Weary
More quotes by William Wordsworth
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will Dear God! the very houses seem asleep And all that mighty heart is lying still!
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The streams with softest sound are flowing, The grass you almost hear it growing, You hear it now, if e'er you can.
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A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
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The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.
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Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.
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Delight and liberty, the simple creed of childhood.
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Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, Let them live upon their praises.
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Plain living and high thinking are no more.
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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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Faith is a passionate intuition.
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The first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
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The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, An appetite a feeling and a love that had no need of a remoter charm by thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.
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We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
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Miss not the occasion by the forelock take that subtle power, the never-halting time.
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He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.
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One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave.
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Like an army defeated the snow hath retreated.
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Careless of books, yet having felt the power Of Nature, by the gentle agency Of natural objects, led me on to feel For passions that were not my own, and think (At random and imperfectly indeed) On man, the heart of man, and human life.
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Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion.
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Heaven lies about us in our infancy.
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