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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!
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
Unknown
Lived
Difference
Differences
Life
Lucy
Ceased
Grave
Graves
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All men feel a habitual gratitude, and something of an honorable bigotry, for the objects which have long continued to please them.
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We must be free or die, who speak the tongue That Shakespeare spake the faith and morals hold Which Milton held.
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In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts bring sad thoughts to the mind.
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The moving accident is not my trade To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.
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To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
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Stern daughter of the voice of God! O Duty! if that name thou love Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring and reprove.
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The monumental pomp of age Was with this goodly personage A stature undepressed in size, Unbent, which rather seemed to rise In open victory o'er the weight Of seventy years, to loftier height.
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And I am happy when I sing.
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Spade! Thou art a tool of honor in my hands. I press thee, through a yielding soil, with pride.
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For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity.
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Come grow old with me. The best is yet to be.
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Father! - to God himself we cannot give a holier name.
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. Not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come.
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Sweetest melodies.Are those that are by distance made more sweet.
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Faith is a passionate intuition.
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To the solid ground Of nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye.
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Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.
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On a fair prospect some have looked, And felt, as I have heard them say, As if the moving time had been A thing as steadfast as the scene On which they gazed themselves away.
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Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.
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