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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
Hung
Upon
Heart
World
Fretful
Beatings
Unprofitable
Stir
Fever

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And I am happy when I sing.
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Wisdom married to immortal verse.
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Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science
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But an old age serene and bright, and lovely as a Lapland night, shall lead thee to thy grave.
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Oft on the dappled turf at ease I sit, and play with similes, Loose type of things through all degrees.
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Laying out grounds may be considered a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.
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But to a higher mark than song can reach, Rose this pure eloquence.
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She seemed a thing that could not feel the touch of earthly years.
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For by superior energies more strict affiance in each other faith more firm in their unhallowed principles, the bad have fairly earned a victory over the weak, the vacillating, inconsistent good.
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Laying out grounds... may be considered as a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.... it is to assist Nature in moving the affections... the affections of those who have the deepest perception of the beauty of Nature.
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When his veering gait And every motion of his starry train Seem governed by a strain Of music, audible to him alone.
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Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher.
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Society became my glittering bride, And airy hopes my children.
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These hoards of wealth you can unlock at will.
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Rapt into still communion that transcends The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, His mind was a thanksgiving to the power That made him it was blessedness and love!
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Me this uncharted freedom tires I feel the weight of chance desires, My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same.
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The Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose.
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The ocean is a mighty harmonist.
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Thou has left behind Powers that will work for thee,-air, earth, and skies! There 's not a breathing of the common wind That will forget thee thou hast great allies Thy friends are exultations, agonies, And love, and man's unconquerable mind.
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At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.
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