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The light that never was, on sea or land The consecration, and the Poet's 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
Light
Never
Consecration
Sea
Poet
Land
Dream

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Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.
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The streams with softest sound are flowing, The grass you almost hear it growing, You hear it now, if e'er you can.
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O Reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle Reader! you would find A tale in everything.
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I, methought, while the sweet breath of heaven Was blowing on my body, felt within A correspondent breeze, that gently moved With quickening virtue, but is now become A tempest, a redundant energy, Vexing its own creation.
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A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays And confident tomorrows.
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That inward eye/ Which is the bliss of solitude.
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We must be free or die, who speak the tongue That Shakespeare spake the faith and morals hold Which Milton held.
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Poetry has never brought me in enough money to buy shoestrings.
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This City now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie Open unto the fields and to the sky All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
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On a fair prospect some have looked, And felt, as I have heard them say, As if the moving time had been A thing as steadfast as the scene On which they gazed themselves away.
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Before us lay a painful road, And guidance have I sought in duteous love From Wisdom's heavenly Father. Hence hath flowed Patience, with trust that, whatsoe'er the way Each takes in this high matter, all may move Cheered with the prospect of a brighter day.
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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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And he is oft the wisest manWho is not wise at all.
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There is creation in the eye.
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Oh for a single hour of that Dundee Who on that day the word of onset gave!
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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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And when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet whence he blew Soul-animating strains,-alas! too few.
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And suddenly all your troubles melt away, all your worries are gone, and it is for no reason other than the look in your partner's eyes. Yes, sometimes life and love really is that simple.
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To be a Prodigal's favourite,-then, worse truth, A Miser's pensioner,-behold our lot!
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Death is the quiet haven of us all.
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