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Turning, for them who pass, the common dust Of servile opportunity to gold.

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
Common
Opportunity
Servile
Turning
Dust
Pass
Gold

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And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.
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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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Two voices are there one is of the sea, One of the mountains: each a mighty Voice.
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Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.
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At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.
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The budding rose above the rose full blown.
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There's something in a flying horse, There's something in a huge balloon.
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But trailing clouds of glory do we come, From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy!.
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Men who can hear the Decalogue, and feel To self-reproach.
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Stop thinking for once in your life!
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One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.
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Before us lay a painful road, And guidance have I sought in duteous love From Wisdom's heavenly Father. Hence hath flowed Patience, with trust that, whatsoe'er the way Each takes in this high matter, all may move Cheered with the prospect of a brighter day.
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Happier of happy though I be, like them I cannot take possession of the sky, mount with a thoughtless impulse, and wheel there, one of a mighty multitude whose way and motion is a harmony and dance magnificent.
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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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Oft on the dappled turf at ease I sit, and play with similes, Loose type of things through all degrees.
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That kill the bloom before its time, And blanch, without the owner's crime, The most resplendent hair.
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I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, wherever nature led.
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Faith is a passionate intuition.
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Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room And hermits are contented with their cells.
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The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone
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