Quote

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.

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
Something
Effort
Never
Dies
Whether
Hope
Infinitude
Desire
Evermore
Young
Expectation
Home
Expectations
Heart
Destiny

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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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Sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart.
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The flower that smells the sweetest is shy and lowly.
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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!
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Earth helped him with the cry of blood.
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Departing summer hath assumed An aspect tenderly illumed, The gentlest look of spring That calls from yonder leafy shade Unfaded, yet prepared to fade, A timely carolling.
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Since every mortal power of Coleridge Was frozen at its marvellous source, The rapt one, of the godlike forehead, The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth: And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, Has vanished from his lonely hearth.
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That blessed mood in which the burthen of the mystery, in which the heavy and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world is lightened.
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While all the future, for thy purer soul, With sober certainties of love is blest.
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We Poets in our youth begin in gladness But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
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And when the stream Which overflowed the soul was passed away, A consciousness remained that it had left Deposited upon the silent shore Of memory images and precious thoughts That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed.
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The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration.
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True dignity abides with him alone Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, Can still suspect, and still revere himself, In lowliness of heart.
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The ocean is a mighty harmonist.
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Huge and mighty forms that do not live like living men, moved slowly through the mind by day and were trouble to my dreams.
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Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room And hermits are contented with their cells.
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Delight and liberty, the simple creed of childhood.
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There is One great society alone on earth: The noble living and the noble dead.
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Behold the Child among his new-born blisses A six years' Darling of a pigmy size! See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly-learned art.
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