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The sightless Milton, with his hair Around his placid temples curled And Shakespeare at his side,-a freight, If clay could think and mind were weight, For him who bore the world!
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
Think
Temples
Freight
Thinking
Boredom
Curled
World
Weight
Placid
Hair
Milton
Side
Bore
Sides
Bores
Around
Clay
Mind
Shakespeare
Sightless
More quotes by William Wordsworth
A power is passing from the earth.
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On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, Musing is solitude
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Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.
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The light that never was, on sea or land The consecration, and the Poet's dream.
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But He is risen, a later star of dawn.
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Let the moon shine on the in thy solitary walk and let the misty mountain-winds be free to blow against thee.
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Ah, what a warning for a thoughtless man, Could field or grove, could any spot of earth, Show to his eye an image of the pangs Which it hath witnessed,-render back an echo Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod!
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Give all thou canst high Heaven rejects the lore of nicely-caluculated less or more.
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When his veering gait And every motion of his starry train Seem governed by a strain Of music, audible to him alone.
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For youthful faults ripe virtues shall atone.
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The clouds that gather round the setting sun, Do take a sober colouring from an eye, That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality.
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One impulse from a vernal wood
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Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
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Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed Their snow-white blossoms on my head, With brightest sunshine round me spread Of spring's unclouded weather, In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard-seat! And birds and flowers once more to greet, My last year's friends together.
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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.
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Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns.
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Sweetest melodies.Are those that are by distance made more sweet.
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Science appears but what in truth she is, Not as our glory and our absolute boast, But as a succedaneum, and a prop To our infirmity.
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Burn all the statutes and their shelves: They stir us up against our kind And worse, against ourselves.
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Poetry has never brought me in enough money to buy shoestrings.
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