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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
Bird
Nook
Flower
Greet
Sweet
Orchard
Upon
Seat
Seats
Birds
Flowers
Fruit
Sequestered

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Free as a bird to settle where I will.
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O Reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle Reader! you would find A tale in everything.
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The light that never was, on sea or land The consecration, and the Poet's dream.
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The wealthiest man among us is the best
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Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
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Rapt into still communion that transcends The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, His mind was a thanksgiving to the power That made him it was blessedness and love!
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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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The very flowers are sacred to the poor.
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. Not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come.
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The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an angel's wing.
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Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry and these we adore Plain living and high thinking are no more.
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Since thy return, through days and weeks Of hope that grew by stealth, How many wan and faded cheeks Have kindled into health! The Old, by thee revived, have said, 'Another year is ours' And wayworn Wanderers, poorly fed, Have smiled upon thy flowers.
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I have felt a presence that disturbs me with the joy of elevated thoughts a sense sublime of something far more deeply interfused, whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, and the round ocean, and the living air, and the blue sky, and in the mind of man.
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The silence that is in the starry sky, / The sleep that is among the lonely hills.
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The stars of midnight shall be dear To her and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face.
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There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream.
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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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The mind that is wise mourns less for what age takes away than what it leaves behind.
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