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The fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.
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
World
Fretful
Beatings
Unprofitable
Stir
Fever
Hung
Upon
Heart
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Truth takes no account of centuries.
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Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind--But how could I forget thee?
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Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows Like harmony in music there is a dark Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles Discordant elements, makes them cling together In one society.
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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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Nature's old felicities.
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Primroses, the Spring may love them Summer knows but little of them.
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Spires whose silent finger points to heaven.
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Worse than idle is compassion if it ends in tears and sighs.
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A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by One after one the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky - I've thought of all by turns, and still I lie Sleepless.
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Brothers all In honour, as in one community, Scholars and gentlemen.
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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.
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These hoards of wealth you can unlock at will.
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Imagination is the means of deep insight and sympathy, the power to conceive and express images removed from normal objective reality.
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