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Plain living and high thinking are no more. The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone our peace, our fearful innocence, And pure religion breathing household laws.

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
Life
High
Plain
Law
Innocence
Gone
Breathing
Religion
Laws
Peace
Pure
Living
Cause
Homely
Good
Causes
Fearful
Thinking
Beauty
Household

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But who shall parcel out His intellect by geometric rules, Split like a province into round and square?
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We bow our heads before Thee, and we laud, And magnify thy name Almighty God! But man is thy most awful instrument, In working out a pure intent.
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The education of circumstances is superior to that of tuition.
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Stay, little cheerful Robin! stay, And at my casement sing, Though it should prove a farewell lay And this our parting spring. * * * * * Then, little Bird, this boon confer, Come, and my requiem sing, Nor fail to be the harbinger Of everlasting spring.
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Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect
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The child is father of the man.
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A mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone.
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Books are the best type of the influence of the past.
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Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither.
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Those old credulities, to Nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock Of history?
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poetry is the breath and finer spirit of knowledge
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Since every mortal power of Coleridge Was frozen at its marvellous source, The rapt one, of the godlike forehead, The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth: And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, Has vanished from his lonely hearth.
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That inward eye/ Which is the bliss of solitude.
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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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My apprehension comes in crowds, I dread the rustling of the grass, The very shadows of the clouds, Have power to shake me as they pass, I question things and do not find, one that will answer to my mind, And all the world appears unkind.
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Wild is the music of autumnal winds Amongst the faded woods.
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Books are yours, Within whose silent chambers treasure lies Preserved from age to age more precious far Than that accumulated store of gold And orient gems, which, for a day of need, The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs. These hoards of truth you can unlock at will.
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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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... and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
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Thou has left behind Powers that will work for thee,-air, earth, and skies! There 's not a breathing of the common wind That will forget thee thou hast great allies Thy friends are exultations, agonies, And love, and man's unconquerable mind.
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