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In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard seat And birds and flowers once more to greet. . . .
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
Upon
Seat
Seats
Birds
Flowers
Fruit
Sequestered
Bird
Nook
Flower
Greet
Sweet
Orchard
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I should dread to disfigure the beautiful ideal of the memories of illustrious persons with incongruous features, and to sully the imaginative purity of classical works with gross and trivial recollections.
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Sweet is the lore which Nature brings Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: We murder to dissect.
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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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The gods approve The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul.
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And you must love him, ere to you He will seem worthy of your love.
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The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.
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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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Let the moon shine on the in thy solitary walk and let the misty mountain-winds be free to blow against thee.
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We must be free or die, who speak the tongue That Shakespeare spake the faith and morals hold Which Milton held.
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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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That best portion of a man's life, his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love.
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Poetry is emotion recollected in tranquillity.
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The eye— it cannot choose but see we cannot bid the ear be still our bodies feel, where'er they be, against or with our will.
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Or shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.
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Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
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Miss not the occasion by the forelock take that subtle power, the never-halting time.
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Bright flower! whose home is everywhere Bold in maternal nature's care And all the long year through the heir Of joy or sorrow, Methinks that there abides in thee Some concord with humanity, Given to no other flower I see The forest through.
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For all things are less dreadful than they seem.
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Books are the best type of the influence of the past.
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Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.
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