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Spade! Thou art a tool of honor in my hands. I press thee, through a yielding soil, with pride.
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
Pride
Tool
Art
Soil
Hands
Presses
Earth
Press
Thou
Thee
Spade
Tools
Spades
Honor
Yielding
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Every gift of noble origin Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath.
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From the body of one guilty deed a thousand ghostly fears and haunting thoughts proceed.
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar.
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The education of circumstances is superior to that of tuition.
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Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower.
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Imagination is the means of deep insight and sympathy, the power to conceive and express images removed from normal objective reality.
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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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The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.
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That kill the bloom before its time, And blanch, without the owner's crime, The most resplendent hair.
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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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Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.
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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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The thought of death sits easy on the man Who has been born and dies among the mountains.
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A babe, by intercourse of touch I held mute dialogues with my Mother's heart.
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When his veering gait And every motion of his starry train Seem governed by a strain Of music, audible to him alone.
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The streams with softest sound are flowing, The grass you almost hear it growing, You hear it now, if e'er you can.
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Because the good old rule Sufficeth them,-the simple plan, That they should take who have the power, And they should keep who can.
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The wealthiest man among us is the best
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The silence that is in the starry sky, / The sleep that is among the lonely hills.
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Behold the Child among his new-born blisses A six years' Darling of a pigmy size! See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly-learned art.
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