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He spake of love, such love as spirits feel In worlds whose course is equable and pure No fears to beat away, no strife to heal,- The past unsighed for, and the future sure.

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
Future
Heal
Fear
Beat
Away
Beats
Equable
Spirit
Whose
Spake
Past
Pure
Strife
Feel
Courses
Spirits
Feels
Course
Worlds
Love
Sure
Fears

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Books are yours, Within whose silent chambers treasure lies Preserved from age to age more precious far Than that accumulated store of gold And orient gems, which, for a day of need, The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs. These hoards of truth you can unlock at will.
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Spires whose silent finger points to heaven.
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A genial hearth, a hospitable board, and a refined rusticity.
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He loves not well whose love is bold! I would not have thee come too nigh. The sun's gold would not seem pure gold Unless the sun were in the sky: To take him thence and chain him near Would make his beauty disappear. William Winter, Love's Queen. The unconquerable pang of despised love.
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We murder to dissect.
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Wisdom sits with children round her knees.
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But to a higher mark than song can reach, Rose this pure eloquence.
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Death is the quiet haven of us all.
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She was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight, A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament Her eyes as stars of twilight fair, Like twilights too her dusky hair, But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn.
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I travelled among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea Nor England! did I know till then What love I bore to thee.
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Golf is a day spent in a round of strenuous idleness.
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By happy chance we saw A twofold image: on a grassy bank A snow-white ram, and in the crystal flood Another and the same!
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The moving accident is not my trade To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.
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Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
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The flower that smells the sweetest is shy and lowly.
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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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In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts bring sad thoughts to the mind.
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Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee! . . . . . . Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart: So didst thou travel on life's common way In cheerful godliness.
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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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Nature's old felicities.
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