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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
Turning
Dust
Pass
Gold
Common
Opportunity
Servile

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Thou unassuming common-place of Nature, with that homely face.
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At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.
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As generations come and go, Their arts, their customs, ebb and flow Fate, fortune, sweep strong powers away, And feeble, of themselves, decay.
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Men who can hear the Decalogue, and feel To self-reproach.
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Behold the Child among his new-born blisses A six years' Darling of a pigmy size! See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly-learned art.
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Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there In happier beauty more pellucid streams, An ampler ether, a diviner air, And fields invested with purpureal gleams.
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The best of what we do and are, Just God, forgive!
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Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray.
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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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Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.
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Science appears but what in truth she is, Not as our glory and our absolute boast, But as a succedaneum, and a prop To our infirmity.
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Golf is a day spent in a round of strenuous idleness.
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The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.
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The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an angel's wing.
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Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay, And could not win thee, Sleep, by any stealth: So do not let me wear to-night away. Without thee what is all the morning's wealth? Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
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A tale in everything.
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.
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But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.
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A soul so pitiably forlorn, If such do on this earth abide, May season apathy with scorn, May turn indifference to pride And still be not unblest- compared With him who grovels, self-debarred From all that lies within the scope Of holy faith and christian hope Or, shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.
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But who is innocent? By grace divine, Not otherwise,O Nature! we are thine.
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