Quote

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.

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
Earth
Memory
Endeavour
Heart
Conflict
Forgiven
Sin
Bitterness
Rueful
Lead
Gates
Riven
Sweet
Sins
Minstrel
Memories
Vain
Effaced
Forever
Bitter
Leaven
Heaven
Mercy
Minstrels

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Sweet is the lore which Nature brings Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: We murder to dissect.
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No motion has she now, no force she neither hears nor sees rolled around in earth's diurnal course, with rocks, and stones, and trees.
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Serene will be our days, and bright and happy will our nature be, when love is an unerring light, and joy its own security.
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How many undervalue the power of simplicity ! But it is the real key to the heart.
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The stars of midnight shall be dear To her and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face.
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In heaven above, And earth below, they best can serve true gladness Who meet most feelingly the calls of sadness.
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Delight and liberty, the simple creed of childhood.
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I'll teach my boy the sweetest things I'll teach him how the owlet sings.
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Oh for a single hour of that Dundee Who on that day the word of onset gave!
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A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard... Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.
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Shalt show us how divine a thing A woman may be made.
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Burn all the statutes and their shelves: They stir us up against our kind And worse, against ourselves.
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For oft, when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood they flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude
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Nor will I then thy modest grace forget, Chaste Snow-drop, venturous harbinger of Spring, And pensive monitor of fleeting years!
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Scorn not the sonnet. Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart.
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Often have I sighed to measure By myself a lonely pleasure,- Sighed to think I read a book, Only read, perhaps, by me.
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Men who can hear the Decalogue, and feel To self-reproach.
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The human mind is capable of excitement without the application of gross and violent stimulants and he must have a very faint perception of its beauty and dignity who does not know this.
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Either still I find Some imperfection in the chosen theme, Or see of absolute accomplishment Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself, That I recoil and droop, and seek repose In listlessness from vain perplexity, Unprofitably travelling towards the grave.
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How is it that you live, and what is it you do?
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