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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
Shall
Call
Blithe
Voice
Cuckoo
Cuckoos
Wandering
Wander
Thee
Bird
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True beauty dwells in deep retreats, Whose veil is unremoved Till heart with heart in concord beats, And the lover is beloved.
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What know we of the Blest above but that they sing, and that they love?
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The Eagle, he was lord above
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The wind, a sightless laborer, whistles at his task.
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A babe, by intercourse of touch I held mute dialogues with my Mother's heart.
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Me this uncharted freedom tires I feel the weight of chance desires, My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same.
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in the mind of man, A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things.
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Sweet Mercy! to the gates of heaven This minstrel lead, his sins forgiven The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour, And memory of Earth's bitter leaven Effaced forever.
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I listened, motionless and still And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.
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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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Oh, blank confusion! true epitome Of what the mighty City is herself, To thousands upon thousands of her sons, Living amid the same perpetual whirl Of trivial objects, melted and reduced To one identity.
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The first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
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Type of the wise who soar but never roam, True to the kindred points of heaven and home.
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Strongest minds are often those whom the noisy world hears least.
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Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet
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Spires whose silent finger points to heaven.
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Far from the world I walk, and from all care.
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True dignity abides with him alone Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, Can still suspect, and still revere himself, In lowliness of heart.
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Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science
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