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Recognizes ever and anon The breeze of Nature stirring in his 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
Nature
Soul
Ever
Anon
Recognizes
Stirring
Breeze

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Or shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.
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But hushed be every thought that springs From out the bitterness of things.
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That mighty orb of song, The divine Milton.
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Delivered from the galling yoke of time.
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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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Rest and be thankful.
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A soul so pitiably forlorn, If such do on this earth abide, May season apathy with scorn, May turn indifference to pride And still be not unblest- compared With him who grovels, self-debarred From all that lies within the scope Of holy faith and christian hope Or, shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.
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On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, Musing is solitude
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Nature never did betray the heart that loved her.
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...one interior life in which all beings live with God, themselves are God, existing in the mighty whole, indistinguishable as the cloudless east is from the cloudless west, when all the hemisphere is one cerulean blue.
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The Primrose for a veil had spread The largest of her upright leaves And thus for purposes benign, A simple flower deceives.
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One impulse from a vernal wood
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The common growth of Mother Earth Suffices me,-her tears, her mirth, Her humblest mirth and tears.
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In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts bring sad thoughts to the mind.
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my brain Worked with a dim and undetermined sense Of unknown modes of being o'er my thoughts There hung a darkness, call it solitude Or blank desertion.
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Like thoughts whose very sweetness yielded proof that they were born for immortality.
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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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The budding rose above the rose full blown.
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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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