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

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If thou art beautiful, and youth and thought endue thee with all truth-be strong--be worthy of the grace of God.
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Be mild, and cleave to gentle things, thy glory and thy happiness be there.
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Poetry has never brought me in enough money to buy shoestrings.
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... and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
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Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
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Thou unassuming common-place of Nature, with that homely face.
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Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows Like harmony in music there is a dark Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles Discordant elements, makes them cling together In one society.
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The wealthiest man among us is the best
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I travelled among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea Nor England! did I know till then What love I bore to thee.
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Thou has left behind Powers that will work for thee,-air, earth, and skies! There 's not a breathing of the common wind That will forget thee thou hast great allies Thy friends are exultations, agonies, And love, and man's unconquerable mind.
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Meek Nature's evening comment on the shows That for oblivion take their daily birth From all the fuming vanities of earth.
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The childhood of today is the manhood of tomorrow
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Dreams, books, are each a world and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow.
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We must be free or die, who speak the tongue That Shakespeare spake the faith and morals hold Which Milton held.
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Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will Dear God! the very houses seem asleep And all that mighty heart is lying still!
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Yon foaming flood seems motionless as iceIts dizzy turbulence eludes the eye,Frozen by distance.
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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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Now when the primrose makes a splendid show, And lilies face the March-winds in full blow, And humbler growths as moved with one desire Put on, to welcome spring, their best attire, Poor Robin is yet flowerless but how gay With his red stalks upon this sunny day!
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