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Where is it now, the glory and the 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
Glory
Dream

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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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Knowledge and increase of enduring joy From the great Nature that exists in works Of mighty Poets.
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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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His high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright.
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Stern daughter of the voice of God! O Duty! if that name thou love Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring and reprove.
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It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the sea: Listen! the mighty being is awake, And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thundereverlastingly.
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The Poet, gentle creature as he is, Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times His fits when he is neither sick nor well, Though no distress be near him but his own Unmanageable thoughts.
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Dreams, books, are each a world.
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She was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight, A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament Her eyes as stars of twilight fair, Like twilights too her dusky hair, But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn.
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All that we behold is full of blessings.
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The gods approve The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul.
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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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Plain living and high thinking are no more. The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone our peace, our fearful innocence, And pure religion breathing household laws.
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To be young was very heaven!
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Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion.
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Sweet childish days, that were as long, As twenty days are now.
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The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration.
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Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.
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There is a luxury in self-dispraise And inward self-disparagement affords To meditative spleen a grateful feast.
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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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