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But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.

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
Light
Fond
Delicate
Appear
Fairs
Fair
Didst
Thou
Dost
Creation
Rival
Imagination
Rivals

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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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Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray.
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My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began So is it now I am a man So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! The Child is father of the Man I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
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Earth helped him with the cry of blood.
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I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills When all at once I saw a crowd A host of golden daffodils Beside the lake beneath the trees Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
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... and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
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I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough, along the mountain-side. By our own spirits we are deified We Poets in our youth begin in gladness, But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
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The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.
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The mind that is wise mourns less for what age takes away than what it leaves behind.
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The stars of midnight shall be dear To her and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face.
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True dignity abides with him alone Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, Can still suspect, and still revere himself, In lowliness of heart.
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And through the heat of conflict keeps the law In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw.
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There is creation in the eye.
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One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.
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Where the statue stood Of Newton, with his prism and silent face, The marble index of a mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of thought alone.
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That blessed mood in which the burthen of the mystery, in which the heavy and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world is lightened.
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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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The soft blue sky did never melt Into his heart he never felt The witchery of the soft blue sky!
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In heaven above, And earth below, they best can serve true gladness Who meet most feelingly the calls of sadness.
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I listened, motionless and still And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.
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