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As in the eye of Nature he has lived, So in the eye of Nature let him die!

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
Lived
Dies
Eye
Death
Nature

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How does the Meadow flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free down to its root, and in that freedom bold.
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There is One great society alone on earth: The noble living and the noble dead.
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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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Sweet childish days, that were as long, As twenty days are now.
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A youth to whom was given So much of earth, so much of heaven.
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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?
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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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We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
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The wealthiest man among us is the best
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Enough, if something from our hands have power To live, and act, and serve the future hour And if, as toward the silent tomb we go, Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, We feel that we are greater than we know.
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Shalt show us how divine a thing A woman may be made.
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Faith is a passionate intuition.
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Mark the babe not long accustomed to this breathing world One that hath barely learned to shape a smile, though yet irrational of soul, to grasp with tiny finger - to let fall a tear And, as the heavy cloud of sleep dissolves, To stretch his limbs, becoming, as might seem. The outward functions of intelligent man.
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Choice word and measured phrase above the reach Of ordinary men.
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Sweet is the lore which Nature brings Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: We murder to dissect.
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Books! tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it.
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Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will Dear God! the very houses seem asleep And all that mighty heart is lying still!
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Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.
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Long as there's a sun that sets, Primroses will have their glory Long as there are violets, They will have a place in story: There's a flower that shall be mine, 'Tis the little Celandine.
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But how can he expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?
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