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O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?
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
Cuckoos
Wandering
Wander
Thee
Bird
Shall
Call
Blithe
Voice
Cuckoo
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The Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society.
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A tale in everything.
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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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Of friends, however humble, scorn not one.
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Delivered from the galling yoke of time.
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Books are the best type of the influence of the past.
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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.
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Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.
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Sweetest melodies.Are those that are by distance made more sweet.
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My apprehension comes in crowds, I dread the rustling of the grass, The very shadows of the clouds, Have power to shake me as they pass, I question things and do not find, one that will answer to my mind, And all the world appears unkind.
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Like thoughts whose very sweetness yielded proof that they were born for immortality.
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Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray.
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In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease and, of its joy secure, The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, And on the vacant air.
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Earth has not anything to show more fair.
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Brothers all In honour, as in one community, Scholars and gentlemen.
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