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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
Excess
Affect
Fancy
Luxury
Familiar
Prodigal
Happiness
Prodigals
Fancies
Disrespect
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The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone
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How many undervalue the power of simplicity ! But it is the real key to the heart.
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The streams with softest sound are flowing, The grass you almost hear it growing, You hear it now, if e'er you can.
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The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an angel's wing.
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Books are the best type of the influence of the past.
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On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, Musing in solitude, I oft perceive Fair trains of images before me rise, Accompanied by feelings of delight Pure, or with no unpleasing sadness mixed.
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Spires whose silent finger points to heaven.
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The earth was all before me. With a heart Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty, I look about and should the chosen guide Be nothing better than a wandering cloud, I cannot miss my way.
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A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays And confident tomorrows.
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A tale in everything.
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A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free.
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The vision and the faculty divine Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse.
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Brothers all In honour, as in one community, Scholars and gentlemen.
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Rapt into still communion that transcends The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, His mind was a thanksgiving to the power That made him it was blessedness and love!
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A Briton even in love should be A subject, not a slave!
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