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And mighty poets in their misery dead.

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
Mighty
Poets
Misery
Poet
Dead
Death

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There is One great society alone on earth: The noble living and the noble dead.
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Wisdom and spirit of the Universe!
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The child is father of the man.
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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 when the stream Which overflowed the soul was passed away, A consciousness remained that it had left Deposited upon the silent shore Of memory images and precious thoughts That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed.
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Plain living and high thinking are no more.
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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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Careless of books, yet having felt the power Of Nature, by the gentle agency Of natural objects, led me on to feel For passions that were not my own, and think (At random and imperfectly indeed) On man, the heart of man, and human life.
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Sweet Mercy! to the gates of heaven This minstrel lead, his sins forgiven The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour, And memory of Earth's bitter leaven Effaced forever.
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One in whom persuasion and belief Had ripened into faith, and faith become A passionate intuition.
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Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.
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Pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.
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Like thoughts whose very sweetness yielded proof that they were born for immortality.
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Serene will be our days, and bright and happy will our nature be, when love is an unerring light, and joy its own security.
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Great men have been among us hands that penn'd And tongues that utter'd wisdom--better none
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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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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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What is pride? A rocket that emulates the stars.
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