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Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.

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
Pensive
Melancholy
Brought
Grace
Beauty
Though
Happy
Place

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The tears into his eyes were brought, And thanks and praises seemed to run So fast out of his heart, I thought They never would have done. -I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning Alas! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left me mourning.
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All men feel a habitual gratitude, and something of an honorable bigotry, for the objects which have long continued to please them.
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Rapt into still communion that transcends The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, His mind was a thanksgiving to the power That made him it was blessedness and love!
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The memory of the just survives in Heaven.
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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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Faith is, necessary to explain anything, and to reconcile the foreknowledge of God with human evil.
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Poetry has never brought me in enough money to buy shoestrings.
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We must be free or die, who speak the tongue That Shakespeare spake the faith and morals hold Which Milton held.
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The Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose.
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And suddenly all your troubles melt away, all your worries are gone, and it is for no reason other than the look in your partner's eyes. Yes, sometimes life and love really is that simple.
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The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.
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Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither.
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Life is divided into three terms - that which was, which is, and which will be. Let us learn from the past to profit by the present, and from the present, to live better in the future.
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Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep/ Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind.
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How is it that you live, and what is it you do?
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That blessed mood in which the burthen of the mystery, in which the heavy and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world is lightened.
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The stars of midnight shall be dear To her and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face.
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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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Nature's old felicities.
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Monastic brotherhood, upon rock Aerial.
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