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A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

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
Love
Creatures
Bright
Tears
Simplicity
Food
Cooking
Wiles
Simple
Kissing
Kisses
Nature
Daily
Transient
Human
Blame
Sorrows
Humans
Praise
Smiles
Good
Sorrow
Creature

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I should dread to disfigure the beautiful ideal of the memories of illustrious persons with incongruous features, and to sully the imaginative purity of classical works with gross and trivial recollections.
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Books are yours, Within whose silent chambers treasure lies Preserved from age to age more precious far Than that accumulated store of gold And orient gems, which, for a day of need, The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs. These hoards of truth you can unlock at will.
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Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay, And could not win thee, Sleep, by any stealth: So do not let me wear to-night away. Without thee what is all the morning's wealth? Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
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Spires whose silent finger points to heaven.
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She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.
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Burn all the statutes and their shelves: They stir us up against our kind And worse, against ourselves.
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Of friends, however humble, scorn not one.
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Faith is, necessary to explain anything, and to reconcile the foreknowledge of God with human evil.
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That though the radiance which was once so bright be now forever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, glory in the flower. We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
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There is One great society alone on earth: The noble living and the noble dead.
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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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Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room And hermits are contented with their cells.
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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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Every gift of noble origin Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath.
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In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease and, of its joy secure, The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, And on the vacant air.
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A deep distress has humanised my soul.
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And the most difficult of tasks to keep Heights which the soul is competent to gain.
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Chains tie us down by land and sea And wishes, vain as mine, may be All that is left to comfort thee.
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Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet
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Give all thou canst high Heaven rejects the lore of nicely-caluculated less or more.
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