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His love was like the liberal air, embracing all, to cheer and bless.

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
Bless
Liberal
Air
Love
Like
Embracing
Cheer

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Pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.
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And when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet whence he blew Soul-animating strains,-alas! too few.
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The gods approve The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul.
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And I am happy when I sing.
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Thought and theory must precede all action, that moves to salutary purposes. Yet action is nobler in itself than either thought or theory.
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'T is hers to pluck the amaranthine flower Of faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower, And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.
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Great God! I'd rather be a Pagan.
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Spires whose silent finger points to heaven.
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Recognizes ever and anon The breeze of Nature stirring in his soul.
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But He is risen, a later star of dawn.
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Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain That has been, and may be again.
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Plain living and high thinking are no more. The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone our peace, our fearful innocence, And pure religion breathing household laws.
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A multitude of causes unknown to former times are now acting with a combined force to blunt the discriminating powers of the mind, and unfitting it for all voluntary exertion to reduce it to a state of almost savage torpor.
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Whether we be young or old,Our destiny, our being's heart and home,Is with infinitude, and only thereWith hope it is, hope that can never die,Effort and expectation, and desire,And something evermore about to be.
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His high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright.
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Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity.
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A babe, by intercourse of touch I held mute dialogues with my Mother's heart.
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Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.
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The clouds that gather round the setting sun, Do take a sober colouring from an eye, That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality.
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Father! - to God himself we cannot give a holier name.
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