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There's something in a flying horse, There's something in a huge balloon.

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
Something
Balloon
Balloons
Flying
Horse
Huge

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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.
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O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?
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Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity.
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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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Spires whose silent finger points to heaven.
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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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Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour Have passed away less happy than the one That by the unwilling ploughshare died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love.
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But trailing clouds of glory do we come, From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy!.
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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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For by superior energies more strict affiance in each other faith more firm in their unhallowed principles, the bad have fairly earned a victory over the weak, the vacillating, inconsistent good.
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Science appears but what in truth she is, Not as our glory and our absolute boast, But as a succedaneum, and a prop To our infirmity.
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Every gift of noble origin Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath.
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The childhood of today is the manhood of tomorrow
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Tis said, fantastic ocean doth enfold The likeness of whate'er on land is seen.
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Either still I find Some imperfection in the chosen theme, Or see of absolute accomplishment Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself, That I recoil and droop, and seek repose In listlessness from vain perplexity, Unprofitably travelling towards the grave.
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By all means sometimes be alone salute thyself see what thy soul doth wear dare to look in thy chest and tumble up and down what thou findest there.
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Or shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.
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Come grow old with me. The best is yet to be.
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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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Milton, thou should'st be living at this hour.
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