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But who would force the soul tilts with a straw Against a champion cased in adamant
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
Would
Tilts
Adamant
Tilt
Straw
Straws
Champion
Force
Soul
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But hushed be every thought that springs From out the bitterness of things.
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At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.
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Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?
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The gods approve The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul.
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Small service is true service, while it lasts.
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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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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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On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, Musing in solitude, I oft perceive Fair trains of images before me rise, Accompanied by feelings of delight Pure, or with no unpleasing sadness mixed.
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Society became my glittering bride, And airy hopes my children.
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Fear is a cloak which old men huddle about their love, as if to keep it warm.
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Plain living and high thinking are no more. The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone our peace, our fearful innocence, And pure religion breathing household laws.
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the Mind of Man-- My haunt, and the main region of my song.
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O dearer far than light and life are dear.
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The sightless Milton, with his hair Around his placid temples curled And Shakespeare at his side,-a freight, If clay could think and mind were weight, For him who bore the world!
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The harvest of a quiet eye, That broods and sleeps on his own heart.
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Prompt to move but firm to wait - knowing things rashly sought are rarely found.
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Nature never did betray the heart that loved her.
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Take the sweet poetry of life away, and what remains behind?
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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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Meek Walton's heavenly memory.
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