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On a fair prospect some have looked, And felt, as I have heard them say, As if the moving time had been A thing as steadfast as the scene On which they gazed themselves away.

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
Thing
Fairs
Time
Fair
Looked
Scene
Heard
Moving
Gazed
Felt
Steadfast
Away
Prospect

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A multitude of causes unknown to former times are now acting with a combined force to blunt the discriminating powers of the mind, and unfitting it for all voluntary exertion to reduce it to a state of almost savage torpor.
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With an eye made quiet by the power of harmony, and the deep power of joy, we see into the life of things.
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We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted.
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She gave me eyes, she gave me ears And humble cares, and delicate fears A heart, the fountain of sweet tears And love and thought and joy.
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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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A famous man is Robin Hood, The English ballad-singer's joy.
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My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began So is it now I am a man.
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in the mind of man, A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things.
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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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No motion has she now, no force she neither hears nor sees rolled around in earth's diurnal course, with rocks, and stones, and trees.
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The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, An appetite a feeling and a love that had no need of a remoter charm by thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.
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What is good for a bootless bene? With these dark words begins my tale And their meaning is, Whence can comfort spring When prayer is of no avail?
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What know we of the Blest above but that they sing, and that they love?
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He spake of love, such love as spirits feel In worlds whose course is equable and pure No fears to beat away, no strife to heal,- The past unsighed for, and the future sure.
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To the solid ground Of nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye.
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The best of what we do and are, Just God, forgive!
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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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Up! up! my friend, and quit your books, Or surely you 'll grow double! Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks! Why all this toil and trouble?
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At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.
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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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