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Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.

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
Forgotten
Half
Dream
Hunt
Hunts

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Wild is the music of autumnal winds Amongst the faded woods.
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I have felt a presence that disturbs me with the joy of elevated thoughts a sense sublime of something far more deeply interfused, whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, and the round ocean, and the living air, and the blue sky, and in the mind of man.
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The gods approve The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul.
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There is One great society alone on earth: The noble living and the noble dead.
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my brain Worked with a dim and undetermined sense Of unknown modes of being o'er my thoughts There hung a darkness, call it solitude Or blank desertion.
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Golf is a day spent in a round of strenuous idleness.
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The first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
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Rest and be thankful.
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I've watched you now a full half-hour Self-poised upon that yellow flower And, little Butterfly! Indeed I know not if you sleep or feed. How motionless! - not frozen seas More motionless! and then What joy awaits you, when the breeze Hath found you out among the trees, And calls you forth again!
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O dearer far than light and life are dear.
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar.
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There is a comfort in the strength of love 'Twill make a thing endurable, which else would overset the brain, or break the heart.
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The child is father of the man: And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
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Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.
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Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray.
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Rapt into still communion that transcends The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, His mind was a thanksgiving to the power That made him it was blessedness and love!
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As generations come and go, Their arts, their customs, ebb and flow Fate, fortune, sweep strong powers away, And feeble, of themselves, decay.
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The Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose.
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What are fears but voices airy? Whispering harm where harm is not. And deluding the unwary Till the fatal bolt is shot!
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The mind of man is a thousand times more beautiful than the earth on which he dwells.
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