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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
Disrespect
Excess
Affect
Fancy
Luxury
Familiar
Prodigal
Happiness
Prodigals
Fancies

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Sweet is the lore which Nature brings Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: We murder to dissect.
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If thou art beautiful, and youth and thought endue thee with all truth-be strong--be worthy of the grace of God.
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I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough, along the mountain-side. By our own spirits we are deified We Poets in our youth begin in gladness, But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
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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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Oft on the dappled turf at ease I sit, and play with similes, Loose type of things through all degrees.
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A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by One after one the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky - I've thought of all by turns, and still I lie Sleepless.
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Yet tears to human suffering are due And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown Are mourned by man, and not by man alone.
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With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars.
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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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And the most difficult of tasks to keep Heights which the soul is competent to gain.
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Long as there's a sun that sets, Primroses will have their glory Long as there are violets, They will have a place in story: There's a flower that shall be mine, 'Tis the little Celandine.
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Sweet childish days, that were as long, As twenty days are now.
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Type of the wise who soar but never roam, True to the kindred points of heaven and home.
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For nature then to me was all in all.
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Be mild, and cleave to gentle things, thy glory and thy happiness be there.
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The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, An appetite a feeling and a love that had no need of a remoter charm by thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.
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Shalt show us how divine a thing A woman may be made.
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Then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils.
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Lady of the Mere, Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.
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Write to me frequently & the longest letters possible never mind whether you have facts or no to communicate fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
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