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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
Gold
Common
Opportunity
Servile
Turning
Dust
Pass

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Where the statue stood Of Newton, with his prism and silent face, The marble index of a mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of thought alone.
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A power is passing from the earth.
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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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Truths that wake To perish never
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The monumental pomp of age Was with this goodly personage A stature undepressed in size, Unbent, which rather seemed to rise In open victory o'er the weight Of seventy years, to loftier height.
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Monastic brotherhood, upon rock Aerial.
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He who feels contempt for any living thing hath faculties that he hath never used, and thought with him is in its infancy.
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All that we behold is full of blessings.
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Life is divided into three terms - that which was, which is, and which will be. Let us learn from the past to profit by the present, and from the present, to live better in the future.
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Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.
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Yet sometimes, when the secret cup Of still and serious thought went round, It seemed as if he drank it up, He felt with spirit so profound.
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Faith is, necessary to explain anything, and to reconcile the foreknowledge of God with human evil.
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With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars.
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A Briton even in love should be A subject, not a slave!
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Mark the babe not long accustomed to this breathing world One that hath barely learned to shape a smile, though yet irrational of soul, to grasp with tiny finger - to let fall a tear And, as the heavy cloud of sleep dissolves, To stretch his limbs, becoming, as might seem. The outward functions of intelligent man.
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O dearer far than light and life are dear.
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A great poet ought to a certain degree to rectify men's feelings... to render their feelings more sane, pure and permanent, in short, more consonant to Nature.
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When from our better selves we have too long been parted by the hurrying world, and droop. Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, how gracious, how benign is solitude.
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Ah, what a warning for a thoughtless man, Could field or grove, could any spot of earth, Show to his eye an image of the pangs Which it hath witnessed,-render back an echo Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod!
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The common growth of Mother Earth Suffices me,-her tears, her mirth, Her humblest mirth and tears.
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