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There is One great society alone on earth: The noble living and the noble dead.

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
Earth
Great
Life
Nobility
Noble
Dead
Alone
Society
Living

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Laying out grounds... may be considered as a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.... it is to assist Nature in moving the affections... the affections of those who have the deepest perception of the beauty of Nature.
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Truths that wake To perish never
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Scorn not the sonnet. Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart.
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Plain living and high thinking are no more.
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But to a higher mark than song can reach, Rose this pure eloquence.
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I'm not talking about a show me other walls of this thing button, I mean a stumble button for wallbase.
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While all the future, for thy purer soul, With sober certainties of love is blest.
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The light that never was, on sea or land The consecration, and the Poet's dream.
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For oft, when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood they flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude
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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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Those old credulities, to Nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock Of history?
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But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.
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For all things are less dreadful than they seem.
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Delight and liberty, the simple creed of childhood.
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The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.
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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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Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science
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Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretch'd in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
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Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.
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Men who can hear the Decalogue, and feel To self-reproach.
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