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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
Misery
Poet
Dead
Death
Mighty
Poets

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The very flowers are sacred to the poor.
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Nature's old felicities.
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I look for ghosts but none will force Their way to me. 'Tis falsely said That there was ever intercourse Between the living and the dead.
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Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?
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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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To character and success, two things, contradictory as they may seem, must go together... humble dependence on God and manly reliance on self.
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For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity.
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She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be But she is in her grave, and oh The difference to me!
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I'm not talking about a show me other walls of this thing button, I mean a stumble button for wallbase.
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Plain living and high thinking are no more. The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone our peace, our fearful innocence, And pure religion breathing household laws.
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Burn all the statutes and their shelves: They stir us up against our kind And worse, against ourselves.
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Thought and theory must precede all action, that moves to salutary purposes. Yet action is nobler in itself than either thought or theory.
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Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill The Ploughboy is whooping — anon — anon! There's joy in the mountains: There's life in the fountains Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing The rain is over and gone.
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What know we of the Blest above but that they sing, and that they love?
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Spires whose silent finger points to heaven.
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We Poets in our youth begin in gladness But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
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Those old credulities, to Nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock Of history?
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The mind of man is a thousand times more beautiful than the earth on which he dwells.
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Stern daughter of the voice of God! O Duty! if that name thou love Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring and reprove.
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Stay, little cheerful Robin! stay, And at my casement sing, Though it should prove a farewell lay And this our parting spring. * * * * * Then, little Bird, this boon confer, Come, and my requiem sing, Nor fail to be the harbinger Of everlasting spring.
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