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But hushed be every thought that springs From out the bitterness of things.

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
Springs
Bitterness
Spring
Thought
Every
Things
Hushed

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Now when the primrose makes a splendid show, And lilies face the March-winds in full blow, And humbler growths as moved with one desire Put on, to welcome spring, their best attire, Poor Robin is yet flowerless but how gay With his red stalks upon this sunny day!
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Poetry is emotion recollected in tranquillity.
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A Primrose by a river's brim A yellow primrose was to him And it was something more.
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Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.
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To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
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Like an army defeated the snow hath retreated.
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No motion has she now, no force she neither hears nor sees rolled around in earth's diurnal course, with rocks, and stones, and trees.
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Before us lay a painful road, And guidance have I sought in duteous love From Wisdom's heavenly Father. Hence hath flowed Patience, with trust that, whatsoe'er the way Each takes in this high matter, all may move Cheered with the prospect of a brighter day.
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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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one daffodil is worth a thousand pleasures, then one is too few.
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A great poet ought to a certain degree to rectify men's feelings... to render their feelings more sane, pure and permanent, in short, more consonant to Nature.
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A multitude of causes unknown to former times are now acting with a combined force to blunt the discriminating powers of the mind, and unfitting it for all voluntary exertion to reduce it to a state of almost savage torpor.
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All that we behold is full of blessings.
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Huge and mighty forms that do not live like living men, moved slowly through the mind by day and were trouble to my dreams.
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I, methought, while the sweet breath of heaven Was blowing on my body, felt within A correspondent breeze, that gently moved With quickening virtue, but is now become A tempest, a redundant energy, Vexing its own creation.
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Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
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Write to me frequently & the longest letters possible never mind whether you have facts or no to communicate fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
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Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.
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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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If thou art beautiful, and youth and thought endue thee with all truth-be strong--be worthy of the grace of God.
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