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The gods approve The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul.

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
Tumult
Approve
Approval
Gods
Depth
Soul

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What are fears but voices airy? Whispering harm where harm is not. And deluding the unwary Till the fatal bolt is shot!
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Like thoughts whose very sweetness yielded proof that they were born for immortality.
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Because the good old rule Sufficeth them,-the simple plan, That they should take who have the power, And they should keep who can.
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Books are the best type of the influence of the past.
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Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there In happier beauty more pellucid streams, An ampler ether, a diviner air, And fields invested with purpureal gleams.
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Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour Have passed away less happy than the one That by the unwilling ploughshare died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love.
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The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.
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Often have I sighed to measure By myself a lonely pleasure,- Sighed to think I read a book, Only read, perhaps, by me.
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But who shall parcel out His intellect by geometric rules, Split like a province into round and square?
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To character and success, two things, contradictory as they may seem, must go together... humble dependence on God and manly reliance on self.
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A Primrose by a river's brim A yellow primrose was to him And it was something more.
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A lawyer art thou? Draw not nigh! Go, carry to some fitter place The keenness of that practised eye, The hardness of that sallow face.
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The Poet, gentle creature as he is, Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times His fits when he is neither sick nor well, Though no distress be near him but his own Unmanageable thoughts.
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Wisdom is oftentimes nearer when we stoop than when we soar.
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May books and nature be their early joy!
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Thou unassuming common-place of Nature, with that homely face.
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Sweet childish days, that were as long, As twenty days are now.
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Laying out grounds... may be considered as a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.... it is to assist Nature in moving the affections... the affections of those who have the deepest perception of the beauty of Nature.
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Type of the wise who soar but never roam, True to the kindred points of heaven and home.
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