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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
Consecration
Sea
Poet
Land
Dream
Light
Never

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A cheerful life is what the Muses love. A soaring spirit is their prime delight.
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Far from the world I walk, and from all care.
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It is the 1st mild day of March. Each minute sweeter than before... there is a blessing in the air.
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But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.
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Neither evil tongues, rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all the dreary intercourse of daily life, shall ever prevail against us.
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Yet sometimes, when the secret cup Of still and serious thought went round, It seemed as if he drank it up, He felt with spirit so profound.
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Or shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.
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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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I'm not talking about a show me other walls of this thing button, I mean a stumble button for wallbase.
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But He is risen, a later star of dawn.
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Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science
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Thou unassuming common-place of Nature, with that homely face.
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That to this mountain-daisy's self were known The beauty of its star-shaped shadow, thrown On the smooth surface of this naked stone!
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We live by admiration, hope and love.
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Like thoughts whose very sweetness yielded proof that they were born for immortality.
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What we have loved Others will love And we will teach them how.
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