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The soft blue sky did never melt Into his heart he never felt The witchery of the soft blue sky!

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
Never
Witchery
Melt
Soft
Sky
Blue
Felt
Heart

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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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Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns.
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The moving accident is not my trade To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.
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A mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone.
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With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars.
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The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink I heard a voice it said Drink, pretty creature, drink'
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How is it that you live, and what is it you do?
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There's something in a flying horse, There's something in a huge balloon.
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Worse than idle is compassion if it ends in tears and sighs.
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in the mind of man, A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things.
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I look for ghosts but none will force Their way to me. 'Tis falsely said That there was ever intercourse Between the living and the dead.
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And what if thou, sweet May, hast known Mishap by worm and blight If expectations newly blown Have perished in thy sight If loves and joys, while up they sprung, Were caught as in a snare Such is the lot of all the young, However bright and fair.
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The silence that is in the starry sky, / The sleep that is among the lonely hills.
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Books are the best type of the influence of the past.
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And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.
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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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Earth helped him with the cry of blood.
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Then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils.
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Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive But to be young was very heaven.
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