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Poetry is the outcome of emotions recollected in tranquility.

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
Recollected
Tranquility
Outcome
Outcomes
Emotions
Poetry
Emotion

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Write to me frequently & the longest letters possible never mind whether you have facts or no to communicate fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
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Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry and these we adore Plain living and high thinking are no more.
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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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The tears into his eyes were brought, And thanks and praises seemed to run So fast out of his heart, I thought They never would have done. -I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning Alas! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left me mourning.
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The best of what we do and are, Just God, forgive!
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Wrongs unredressed, or insults unavenged.
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In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease and, of its joy secure, The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, And on the vacant air.
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Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretch'd in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
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That mighty orb of song, The divine Milton.
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The memory of the just survives in Heaven.
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The thought of our past years in me doth breed perpetual benedictions.
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A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard... Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.
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In heaven above, And earth below, they best can serve true gladness Who meet most feelingly the calls of sadness.
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The softest breeze to fairest flowers gives birth: Think not that Prudence dwells in dark abodes, She scans the future with the eye of gods.
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Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray.
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My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard.
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Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.
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Free as a bird to settle where I will.
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The Eagle, he was lord above
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The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone
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