Quote

Alas! how little can a moment show Of an eye where feeling plays In ten thousand dewy rays: A face o'er which a thousand shadows go!

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
Moment
Ten
Feelings
Shadow
Moments
Thousand
Shows
Feeling
Dewy
Littles
Face
Alas
Little
Faces
Shadows
Play
Eye
Rays
Show
Plays

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Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And, even with something of a mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster child, her inmate man, Forget the glories he hath known And that imperial palace whence he came.
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Sad fancies do we then affect, In luxury of disrespect To our own prodigal excess Of too familiar happiness.
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And the most difficult of tasks to keep Heights which the soul is competent to gain.
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Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
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A light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove.
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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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Pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.
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Pleasures newly found are sweet When they lie about our feet.
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I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough, along the mountain-side. By our own spirits we are deified We Poets in our youth begin in gladness, But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
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She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.
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And when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet whence he blew Soul-animating strains,-alas! too few.
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Strongest minds are often those whom the noisy world hears least.
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The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration.
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One of those heavenly days that cannot die.
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For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity.
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Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
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Give all thou canst high Heaven rejects the lore of nicely-caluculated less or more.
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For oft, when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood they flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude
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Come grow old with me. The best is yet to be.
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Monastic brotherhood, upon rock Aerial.
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