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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.

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
Imagination
Objective
Means
Sympathy
Reality
Objectives
Power
Images
Mean
Insight
Express
Normal
Conceive
Deep
Removed

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Enough, if something from our hands have power To live, and act, and serve the future hour And if, as toward the silent tomb we go, Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, We feel that we are greater than we know.
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There's something in a flying horse, There's something in a huge balloon.
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We Poets in our youth begin in gladness But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
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The child is the father of man.
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The child is father of the man: And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
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I'm not talking about a show me other walls of this thing button, I mean a stumble button for wallbase.
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A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
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And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore.
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For all things are less dreadful than they seem.
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Monastic brotherhood, upon rock Aerial.
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For oft, when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood they flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude
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Often have I sighed to measure By myself a lonely pleasure,- Sighed to think I read a book, Only read, perhaps, by me.
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At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.
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Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
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Everything is tedious when one does not read with the feeling of the Author.
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Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will Dear God! the very houses seem asleep And all that mighty heart is lying still!
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Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.
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Books! tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it.
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my brain Worked with a dim and undetermined sense Of unknown modes of being o'er my thoughts There hung a darkness, call it solitude Or blank desertion.
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Huge and mighty forms that do not live like living men, moved slowly through the mind by day and were trouble to my dreams.
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