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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
Bitterness
Spring
Thought
Every
Things
Hushed
Springs

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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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Take the sweet poetry of life away, and what remains behind?
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It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the sea: Listen! the mighty being is awake, And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thundereverlastingly.
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Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows Like harmony in music there is a dark Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles Discordant elements, makes them cling together In one society.
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The sightless Milton, with his hair Around his placid temples curled And Shakespeare at his side,-a freight, If clay could think and mind were weight, For him who bore the world!
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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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The human mind is capable of excitement without the application of gross and violent stimulants and he must have a very faint perception of its beauty and dignity who does not know this.
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From the body of one guilty deed a thousand ghostly fears and haunting thoughts proceed.
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A few strong instincts and a few plain rules.
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The intellectual power, through words and things, Went sounding on a dim and perilous way!
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Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.
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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 light that never was, on sea or land The consecration, and the Poet's dream.
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Knowing that Nature never did betray the heart that loved her 'tis her privilege, through all the years of this our life, to lead from joy to joy.
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My apprehension comes in crowds, I dread the rustling of the grass, The very shadows of the clouds, Have power to shake me as they pass, I question things and do not find, one that will answer to my mind, And all the world appears unkind.
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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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The softest breeze to fairest flowers gives birth: Think not that Prudence dwells in dark abodes, She scans the future with the eye of gods.
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His high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright.
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I've watched you now a full half-hour Self-poised upon that yellow flower And, little Butterfly! Indeed I know not if you sleep or feed. How motionless! - not frozen seas More motionless! and then What joy awaits you, when the breeze Hath found you out among the trees, And calls you forth again!
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Sweet childish days, that were as long, As twenty days are now.
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