Quote

Not Chaos, not the darkest pit of lowest Erebus, nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out by help of dreams - can breed such fear and awe as fall upon us often when we look into our Minds, into the Mind 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
Mind
Upon
Darkest
Men
Fear
Pits
Often
Awe
Fall
Lowest
Blinder
Helping
Chaos
Scooped
Dream
Minds
Aught
Look
Dreams
Vacancy
Looks
Help
Breed

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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.
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Give unto me, made lowly wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice The confidence of reason give, And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live!
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One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.
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Primroses, the Spring may love them Summer knows but little of them.
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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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That best portion of a man's life, his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love.
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Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher.
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The mind that is wise mourns less for what age takes away than what it leaves behind.
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Rest and be thankful.
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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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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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Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn
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The Primrose for a veil had spread The largest of her upright leaves And thus for purposes benign, A simple flower deceives.
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I listened, motionless and still And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.
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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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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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The budding rose above the rose full blown.
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In years that bring the philosophic mind.
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And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.
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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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