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But how can he expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?

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
Heed
Expect
Build
Call
Others
Take
Love

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Meek Nature's evening comment on the shows That for oblivion take their daily birth From all the fuming vanities of earth.
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Books! tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it.
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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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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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From the body of one guilty deed a thousand ghostly fears and haunting thoughts proceed.
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The thought of death sits easy on the man Who has been born and dies among the mountains.
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Golf is a day spent in a round of strenuous idleness.
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And now I see with eye serene, The very pulse of the machine. A being breathing thoughtful breaths, A traveler between life and death.
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As thou these ashes, little brook, wilt bear Into the Avon, Avon to the tide Of Severn, Severn to the narrow seas, Into main ocean they, this deed accursed An emblem yields to friends and enemies How the bold teacher's doctrine, sanctified By truth, shall spread, throughout the world dispersed.
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Not Chaos, not the darkest pit of lowest Erebus, nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out by help of dreams - can breed such fear and awe as fall upon us often when we look into our Minds, into the Mind of Man.
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To be young was very heaven!
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Not in Utopia, -- subterranean fields, --Or some secreted island, Heaven knows whereBut in the very world, which is the worldOf all of us, -- the place where in the endWe find our happiness, or not at all
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A light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove.
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Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.
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Laying out grounds may be considered a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.
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And mighty poets in their misery dead.
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Turning, for them who pass, the common dust Of servile opportunity to gold.
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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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Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade Of that which once was great is passed away.
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Wisdom is oftentimes nearer when we stoop than when we soar.
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