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[Mathematics] is an independent world created out of pure intelligence.

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
Mathematician
Mathematical
Math
Mathematics
Intelligence
Independent
Created
Pure

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She seemed a thing that could not feel the touch of earthly years.
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The human mind is capable of excitement without the application of gross and violent stimulants and he must have a very faint perception of its beauty and dignity who does not know this.
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Therefore am I still a lover of the meadows and the woods, and mountains and of all that we behold from this green earth.
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One impulse from a vernal wood
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Either still I find Some imperfection in the chosen theme, Or see of absolute accomplishment Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself, That I recoil and droop, and seek repose In listlessness from vain perplexity, Unprofitably travelling towards the grave.
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Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows Like harmony in music there is a dark Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles Discordant elements, makes them cling together In one society.
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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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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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It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the sea: Listen! the mighty being is awake, And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thundereverlastingly.
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A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard... Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.
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What is pride? A rocket that emulates the stars.
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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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In heaven above, And earth below, they best can serve true gladness Who meet most feelingly the calls of sadness.
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Poetry is emotion recollected in tranquillity.
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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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The wealthiest man among us is the best
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The soft blue sky did never melt Into his heart he never felt The witchery of the soft blue sky!
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The sightless Milton, with his hair Around his placid temples curled And Shakespeare at his side,-a freight, If clay could think and mind were weight, For him who bore the world!
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Oh for a single hour of that Dundee Who on that day the word of onset gave!
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I've watched you now a full half-hour Self-poised upon that yellow flower And, little Butterfly! Indeed I know not if you sleep or feed. How motionless! - not frozen seas More motionless! and then What joy awaits you, when the breeze Hath found you out among the trees, And calls you forth again!
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