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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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The thought of our past years in me doth breed perpetual benedictions.
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And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.
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Take the sweet poetry of life away, and what remains behind?
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Hearing often-times the still, sad music of humanity, nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power to chasten and subdue.
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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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Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion.
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The harvest of a quiet eye, That broods and sleeps on his own heart.
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Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill The Ploughboy is whooping — anon — anon! There's joy in the mountains: There's life in the fountains Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing The rain is over and gone.
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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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At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.
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Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge - it is as immortal as the heart of man.
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Pleasures newly found are sweet When they lie about our feet.
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The best of what we do and are, Just God, forgive!
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The ocean is a mighty harmonist.
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Come grow old with me. The best is yet to be.
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Every great and original writer, in proportion as he is great and original, must himself create the taste by which he is to be relished.
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But who, if he be called upon to face Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined Great issues, good or bad for humankind, Is happy as a lover.
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Tis not in battles that from youth we train The Governor who must be wise and good, And temper with the sternness of the brain Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood.
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Miss not the occasion by the forelock take that subtle power, the never-halting time.
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A lake carries you into recesses of feeling otherwise impenetrable.
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