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Far from the world I walk, and from all care.

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
Walk
Walks
Care
Life
World

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The flower that smells the sweetest is shy and lowly.
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With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars.
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Golf is a day spent in a round of strenuous idleness.
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And the most difficult of tasks to keep Heights which the soul is competent to gain.
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The silence that is in the starry sky, / The sleep that is among the lonely hills.
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Great God! I'd rather be a Pagan.
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To be young was very heaven!
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Ah, what a warning for a thoughtless man, Could field or grove, could any spot of earth, Show to his eye an image of the pangs Which it hath witnessed,-render back an echo Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod!
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Give all thou canst high Heaven rejects the lore of nicely-caluculated less or more.
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Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet
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The intellectual power, through words and things, Went sounding on a dim and perilous way!
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May books and nature be their early joy!
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When from our better selves we have too long been parted by the hurrying world, and droop. Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, how gracious, how benign is solitude.
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Delivered from the galling yoke of time.
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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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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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Primroses, the Spring may love them Summer knows but little of them.
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Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed Their snow-white blossoms on my head, With brightest sunshine round me spread Of spring's unclouded weather, In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard-seat! And birds and flowers once more to greet, My last year's friends together.
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Whether we be young or old,Our destiny, our being's heart and home,Is with infinitude, and only thereWith hope it is, hope that can never die,Effort and expectation, and desire,And something evermore about to be.
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