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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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The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.
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Poetry has never brought me in enough money to buy shoestrings.
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Departing summer hath assumed An aspect tenderly illumed, The gentlest look of spring That calls from yonder leafy shade Unfaded, yet prepared to fade, A timely carolling.
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And when the stream Which overflowed the soul was passed away, A consciousness remained that it had left Deposited upon the silent shore Of memory images and precious thoughts That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed.
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Monastic brotherhood, upon rock Aerial.
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But hushed be every thought that springs From out the bitterness of things.
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That blessed mood in which the burthen of the mystery, in which the heavy and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world is lightened.
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For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity.
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That though the radiance which was once so bright be now forever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, glory in the flower. We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
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Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters.
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Hope smiled when your nativity was cast, Children of Summer!
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And through the heat of conflict keeps the law In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw.
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