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Everything is tedious when one does not read with the feeling of the Author.

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
Read
Feelings
Doe
Everything
Tedious
Author
Feeling

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And he is oft the wisest manWho is not wise at all.
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On a fair prospect some have looked, And felt, as I have heard them say, As if the moving time had been A thing as steadfast as the scene On which they gazed themselves away.
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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!
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Turning, for them who pass, the common dust Of servile opportunity to gold.
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Those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings Blank misgivings of a Creature Moving about in worlds not realised, High instincts before which our mortal Nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised
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A lake carries you into recesses of feeling otherwise impenetrable.
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Poetry is emotion recollected in tranquillity.
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Lady of the Mere, Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.
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The mysteries that cups of flowers infold And all the gorgeous sights which fairies do behold.
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Bright flower! whose home is everywhere Bold in maternal nature's care And all the long year through the heir Of joy or sorrow, Methinks that there abides in thee Some concord with humanity, Given to no other flower I see The forest through.
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Babylon, Learned and wise, hath perished utterly, Nor leaves her speech one word to aid the sigh That would lament her.
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And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore.
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Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While 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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Tis said, fantastic ocean doth enfold The likeness of whate'er on land is seen.
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Memories... images and precious thoughts that shall not die and cannot be destroyed.
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There is One great society alone on earth: The noble living and the noble dead.
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The wind, a sightless laborer, whistles at his task.
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As generations come and go, Their arts, their customs, ebb and flow Fate, fortune, sweep strong powers away, And feeble, of themselves, decay.
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The budding rose above the rose full blown.
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Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
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