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Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there In happier beauty more pellucid streams, An ampler ether, a diviner air, And fields invested with purpureal gleams.

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
Happier
Streams
Diviner
Air
Imaged
Fields
Beauteous
Beauty
Gleams
Ether
Gleam
Invested

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I have felt a presence that disturbs me with the joy of elevated thoughts a sense sublime of something far more deeply interfused, whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, and the round ocean, and the living air, and the blue sky, and in the mind of man.
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Oh for a single hour of that Dundee Who on that day the word of onset gave!
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Come grow old with me. The best is yet to be.
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In heaven above, And earth below, they best can serve true gladness Who meet most feelingly the calls of sadness.
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While all the future, for thy purer soul, With sober certainties of love is blest.
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We Poets in our youth begin in gladness But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
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We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted.
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Men who can hear the Decalogue, and feel To self-reproach.
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A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard... Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.
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Free as a bird to settle where I will.
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A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays And confident tomorrows.
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Now when the primrose makes a splendid show, And lilies face the March-winds in full blow, And humbler growths as moved with one desire Put on, to welcome spring, their best attire, Poor Robin is yet flowerless but how gay With his red stalks upon this sunny day!
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The sunshine is a glorious birth But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.
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Nature's old felicities.
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How many undervalue the power of simplicity ! But it is the real key to the heart.
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For youthful faults ripe virtues shall atone.
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And mighty poets in their misery dead.
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And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore.
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One of those heavenly days that cannot die.
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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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