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

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Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
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Since thy return, through days and weeks Of hope that grew by stealth, How many wan and faded cheeks Have kindled into health! The Old, by thee revived, have said, 'Another year is ours' And wayworn Wanderers, poorly fed, Have smiled upon thy flowers.
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Sweet Mercy! to the gates of heaven This minstrel lead, his sins forgiven The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour, And memory of Earth's bitter leaven Effaced forever.
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The eye— it cannot choose but see we cannot bid the ear be still our bodies feel, where'er they be, against or with our will.
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Two voices are there one is of the sea, One of the mountains: each a mighty Voice.
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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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She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be But she is in her grave, and oh The difference to me!
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A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by One after one the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky - I've thought of all by turns, and still I lie Sleepless.
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Nor less I deem that there are Powers Which of themselves our minds impress That we can feed this mind of ours In a wise passiveness
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Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive But to be young was very heaven.
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This City now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie Open unto the fields and to the sky All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
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Oh, blank confusion! true epitome Of what the mighty City is herself, To thousands upon thousands of her sons, Living amid the same perpetual whirl Of trivial objects, melted and reduced To one identity.
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Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound.
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And the most difficult of tasks to keep Heights which the soul is competent to gain.
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Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee! . . . . . . Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart: So didst thou travel on life's common way In cheerful godliness.
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Every gift of noble origin Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath.
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Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.
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Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?
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