Quote

By happy chance we saw A twofold image: on a grassy bank A snow-white ram, and in the crystal flood Another and the same!

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
Chance
Rams
Happy
Crystal
White
Crystals
Another
Flood
Bank
Snow
Image
Grassy
Saws
Twofold

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Often have I sighed to measure By myself a lonely pleasure,- Sighed to think I read a book, Only read, perhaps, by me.
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He loves not well whose love is bold! I would not have thee come too nigh. The sun's gold would not seem pure gold Unless the sun were in the sky: To take him thence and chain him near Would make his beauty disappear. William Winter, Love's Queen. The unconquerable pang of despised love.
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That kill the bloom before its time, And blanch, without the owner's crime, The most resplendent hair.
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In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease and, of its joy secure, The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, And on the vacant air.
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Pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.
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The eye— it cannot choose but see we cannot bid the ear be still our bodies feel, where'er they be, against or with our will.
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The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone
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Strongest minds are often those whom the noisy world hears least.
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Death is the quiet haven of us all.
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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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Truths that wake To perish never
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A youth to whom was given So much of earth, so much of heaven.
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Wisdom and spirit of the Universe!
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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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Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity.
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This solitary Tree! a living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay Of form and aspect too magnificent To be destroyed.
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The best of what we do and are, Just God, forgive!
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Everything is tedious when one does not read with the feeling of the Author.
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Memories... images and precious thoughts that shall not die and cannot be destroyed.
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Yet sometimes, when the secret cup Of still and serious thought went round, It seemed as if he drank it up, He felt with spirit so profound.
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