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A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free.

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
Age
Happiness
Happy
Free
Beautiful
Youth

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Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.
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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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She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.
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Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade Of that which once was great is passed away.
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Spade! Thou art a tool of honor in my hands. I press thee, through a yielding soil, with pride.
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Imagination, which in truth Is but another name for absolute power And clearest insight, amplitude of mind, And reason, in her most exalted mood.
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Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
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The thought of death sits easy on the man Who has been born and dies among the mountains.
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Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters.
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Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none / Look up a second time, and, one by one, / You mark them twinkling out with silvery light, / And wonder how they could elude the sight!
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Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower.
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O Reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle Reader! you would find A tale in everything.
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There is a luxury in self-dispraise And inward self-disparagement affords To meditative spleen a grateful feast.
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Me this uncharted freedom tires I feel the weight of chance desires, My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same.
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Tis not in battles that from youth we train The Governor who must be wise and good, And temper with the sternness of the brain Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood.
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Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity.
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Poetry has never brought me in enough money to buy shoestrings.
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This City now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie Open unto the fields and to the sky All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
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May books and nature be their early joy!
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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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