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And you must love him, ere to you He will seem worthy of your love.

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
Worthy
Seem
Seems
Must
Love

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Earth has not anything to show more fair.
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The gods approve The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul.
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The child shall become father to the man.
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Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
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I am already kindly disposed towards you. My friendship it is not in my power to give: this is a gift which no man can make, it is not in our own power: a sound and healthy friendship is the growth of time and circumstance, it will spring up and thrive like a wildflower when these favour, and when they do not, it is in vain to look for it.
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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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Of friends, however humble, scorn not one.
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By happy chance we saw A twofold image: on a grassy bank A snow-white ram, and in the crystal flood Another and the same!
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Who, doomed to go in company with Pain And Fear and Bloodshed,-miserable train!- Turns his necessity to glorious gain.
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...one interior life in which all beings live with God, themselves are God, existing in the mighty whole, indistinguishable as the cloudless east is from the cloudless west, when all the hemisphere is one cerulean blue.
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Bright flower! whose home is everywhere Bold in maternal nature's care And all the long year through the heir Of joy or sorrow, Methinks that there abides in thee Some concord with humanity, Given to no other flower I see The forest through.
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Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower.
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We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted.
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Oh, blank confusion! true epitome Of what the mighty City is herself, To thousands upon thousands of her sons, Living amid the same perpetual whirl Of trivial objects, melted and reduced To one identity.
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The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.
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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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A genial hearth, a hospitable board, and a refined rusticity.
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And mighty poets in their misery dead.
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