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In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts bring sad thoughts to the mind.

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
Thoughts
Bring
Mind
Reverie
Pleasant
Mood
Sweet

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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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A power is passing from the earth.
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What is good for a bootless bene? With these dark words begins my tale And their meaning is, Whence can comfort spring When prayer is of no avail?
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To be a Prodigal's favourite,-then, worse truth, A Miser's pensioner,-behold our lot!
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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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I look for ghosts but none will force Their way to me. 'Tis falsely said That there was ever intercourse Between the living and the dead.
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While all the future, for thy purer soul, With sober certainties of love is blest.
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Neither evil tongues, rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all the dreary intercourse of daily life, shall ever prevail against us.
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I'm not talking about a show me other walls of this thing button, I mean a stumble button for wallbase.
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And now I see with eye serene, The very pulse of the machine. A being breathing thoughtful breaths, A traveler between life and death.
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Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade Of that which once was great is passed away.
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Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.
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Enough, if something from our hands have power To live, and act, and serve the future hour And if, as toward the silent tomb we go, Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, We feel that we are greater than we know.
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Golf is a day spent in a round of strenuous idleness.
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Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion.
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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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Strongest minds are often those whom the noisy world hears least.
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Ten thousand saw I at a glance, tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
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Either still I find Some imperfection in the chosen theme, Or see of absolute accomplishment Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself, That I recoil and droop, and seek repose In listlessness from vain perplexity, Unprofitably travelling towards the grave.
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The mind that is wise mourns less for what age takes away than what it leaves behind.
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