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A cheerful life is what the Muses love. A soaring spirit is their prime delight.

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
Soar
Muse
Cheerful
Prime
Delight
Spirit
Love
Muses
Life
Soaring

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Come grow old with me. The best is yet to be.
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A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free.
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In years that bring the philosophic mind.
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Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry and these we adore Plain living and high thinking are no more.
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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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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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He spake of love, such love as spirits feel In worlds whose course is equable and pure No fears to beat away, no strife to heal,- The past unsighed for, and the future sure.
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Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close upon the growing boy.
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The world is too much with us late and soon, getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours.
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Pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.
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I'm not talking about a show me other walls of this thing button, I mean a stumble button for wallbase.
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In ourselves our safety must be sought. By our own right hand it must be wrought.
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For mightier far Than strength of nerve or sinew, or the sway Of magic potent over sun and star, Is love, though oft to agony distrest, And though his favourite be feeble woman's breast.
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Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray.
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Choice word and measured phrase above the reach Of ordinary men.
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The earth was all before me. With a heart Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty, I look about and should the chosen guide Be nothing better than a wandering cloud, I cannot miss my way.
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Where the statue stood Of Newton, with his prism and silent face, The marble index of a mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of thought alone.
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Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity.
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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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When from our better selves we have too long been parted by the hurrying world, and droop. Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, how gracious, how benign is solitude.
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