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'T is hers to pluck the amaranthine flower Of faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower, And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.

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
Wind
Showers
Heaviest
Faith
Affliction
Wreaths
Temples
Sufferers
Round
Pluck
Rounds
Shrink
Endure
Bind
Sorrow
Shower
Keenest
Flower
Shrinks
Sufferer

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the Mind of Man-- My haunt, and the main region of my song.
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We live by Admiration, Hope, and Love And, even as these are well and wisely fixed, In dignity of being we ascend.
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Whether we be young or old,Our destiny, our being's heart and home,Is with infinitude, and only thereWith hope it is, hope that can never die,Effort and expectation, and desire,And something evermore about to be.
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Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain That has been, and may be again.
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Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.
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Books are the best type of the influence of the past.
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The common growth of Mother Earth Suffices me,-her tears, her mirth, Her humblest mirth and tears.
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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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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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Babylon, Learned and wise, hath perished utterly, Nor leaves her speech one word to aid the sigh That would lament her.
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In spite of difference of soil and climate, of language and manners, of laws and customs-in spite of things silently gone out of mind, and things violently destroyed, the Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society, as it is spread over the whole earth, and over all time.
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What know we of the Blest above but that they sing, and that they love?
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Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
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And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.
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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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A famous man is Robin Hood, The English ballad-singer's joy.
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Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none / Look up a second time, and, one by one, / You mark them twinkling out with silvery light, / And wonder how they could elude the sight!
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There is creation in the eye.
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