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There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a 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
Common
Freshness
Dream
Meadows
Light
Celestial
Seems
Stream
Earth
Streams
Every
Sight
Time
Glory
Meadow
Seem
Grove
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The child is the father of man.
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Wisdom sits with children round her knees.
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With an eye made quiet by the power of harmony, and the deep power of joy, we see into the life of things.
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He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.
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Earth helped him with the cry of blood.
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Enough, if something from our hands have power To live, and act, and serve the future hour And if, as toward the silent tomb we go, Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, We feel that we are greater than we know.
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in the mind of man, A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things.
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The world is too much with us late and soon, getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours.
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But who would force the soul tilts with a straw Against a champion cased in adamant
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Sweet Mercy! to the gates of heaven This minstrel lead, his sins forgiven The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour, And memory of Earth's bitter leaven Effaced forever.
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Prompt to move but firm to wait - knowing things rashly sought are rarely found.
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The mysteries that cups of flowers infold And all the gorgeous sights which fairies do behold.
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Worse than idle is compassion if it ends in tears and sighs.
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Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.
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One with more of soul in his face than words on his tongue.
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The Primrose for a veil had spread The largest of her upright leaves And thus for purposes benign, A simple flower deceives.
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Poetry is emotion recollected in tranquillity.
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Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretch'd in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
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The fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.
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Open-mindedness is the harvest of a quiet eye.
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