Quote

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

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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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Type of the wise who soar but never roam, True to the kindred points of heaven and home.
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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.
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And now I see with eye serene, The very pulse of the machine. A being breathing thoughtful breaths, A traveler between life and death.
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The Poet, gentle creature as he is, Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times His fits when he is neither sick nor well, Though no distress be near him but his own Unmanageable thoughts.
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When men change swords for ledgers, and desert The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed I had, my Country--am I to be blamed?
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Thou unassuming common-place of Nature, with that homely face.
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Love betters what is best
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True beauty dwells in deep retreats, Whose veil is unremoved Till heart with heart in concord beats, And the lover is beloved.
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Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters.
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I listened, motionless and still And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.
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And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore.
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Brothers all In honour, as in one community, Scholars and gentlemen.
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But who would force the soul tilts with a straw Against a champion cased in adamant
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Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.
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There is One great society alone on earth: The noble living and the noble dead.
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One impulse from a vernal wood
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Alas! how little can a moment show Of an eye where feeling plays In ten thousand dewy rays: A face o'er which a thousand shadows go!
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