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Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?

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
Periwinkle
Lament
Reason
Made
Men

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The Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society.
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Then blame not those who, by the mightiest lever Known to the moral world, Imagination.
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Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
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The ocean is a mighty harmonist.
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Sweet Mercy! to the gates of heaven This minstrel lead, his sins forgiven The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour, And memory of Earth's bitter leaven Effaced forever.
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The childhood of today is the manhood of tomorrow
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Habit rules the unreflecting herd.
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The clouds that gather round the setting sun, Do take a sober colouring from an eye, That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality.
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Science appears but what in truth she is, Not as our glory and our absolute boast, But as a succedaneum, and a prop To our infirmity.
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Sweet childish days, that were as long, As twenty days are now.
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Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher.
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Books are yours, Within whose silent chambers treasure lies Preserved from age to age more precious far Than that accumulated store of gold And orient gems, which, for a day of need, The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs. These hoards of truth you can unlock at will.
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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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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar.
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Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.
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My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began So is it now I am a man.
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The child shall become father to the man.
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