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Sad fancies do we then affect, In luxury of disrespect To our own prodigal excess Of too familiar happiness.

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
Happiness
Prodigals
Fancies
Disrespect
Excess
Affect
Fancy
Luxury
Familiar
Prodigal

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Because the good old rule Sufficeth them,-the simple plan, That they should take who have the power, And they should keep who can.
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Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind--But how could I forget thee?
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A lawyer art thou? Draw not nigh! Go, carry to some fitter place The keenness of that practised eye, The hardness of that sallow face.
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Give unto me, made lowly wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice The confidence of reason give, And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live!
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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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One in whom persuasion and belief Had ripened into faith, and faith become A passionate intuition.
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Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room And hermits are contented with their cells.
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The Eagle, he was lord above
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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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The fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.
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She was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight, A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament Her eyes as stars of twilight fair, Like twilights too her dusky hair, But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn.
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I've watched you now a full half-hour Self-poised upon that yellow flower And, little Butterfly! Indeed I know not if you sleep or feed. How motionless! - not frozen seas More motionless! and then What joy awaits you, when the breeze Hath found you out among the trees, And calls you forth again!
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What is pride? A rocket that emulates the stars.
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Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound.
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To be a Prodigal's favourite,-then, worse truth, A Miser's pensioner,-behold our lot!
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