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Up! up! my friend, and quit your books, Or surely you 'll grow double! Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks! Why all this toil and trouble?

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
Clear
Quitting
Book
Surely
Looks
Friendship
Friend
Grow
Trouble
Toil
Grows
Double
Books
Quit

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Books are the best type of the influence of the past.
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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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My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard.
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Turning, for them who pass, the common dust Of servile opportunity to gold.
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Departing summer hath assumed An aspect tenderly illumed, The gentlest look of spring That calls from yonder leafy shade Unfaded, yet prepared to fade, A timely carolling.
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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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Bright was the summer's noon when quickening steps Followed each other till a dreary moor Was crossed, a bare ridge clomb, upon whose top Standing alone, as from a rampart's edge, I overlooked the bed of Windermere, Like a vast river, stretching in the sun.
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Of friends, however humble, scorn not one.
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Truths that wake To perish never
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And when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet whence he blew Soul-animating strains,-alas! too few.
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Burn all the statutes and their shelves: They stir us up against our kind And worse, against ourselves.
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The very flowers are sacred to the poor.
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The daisy, by the shadow that it casts, Protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun.
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Not in Utopia, -- subterranean fields, --Or some secreted island, Heaven knows whereBut in the very world, which is the worldOf all of us, -- the place where in the endWe find our happiness, or not at all
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Thought and theory must precede all action, that moves to salutary purposes. Yet action is nobler in itself than either thought or theory.
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The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.
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Give unto me, made lowly wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice The confidence of reason give, And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live!
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Sweetest melodies.Are those that are by distance made more sweet.
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Nor will I then thy modest grace forget, Chaste Snow-drop, venturous harbinger of Spring, And pensive monitor of fleeting years!
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She seemed a thing that could not feel the touch of earthly years.
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