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Meek Nature's evening comment on the shows That for oblivion take their daily birth From all the fuming vanities of earth.

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
Evening
Daily
Birth
Fuming
Shows
Vanities
Nature
Meek
Earth
Oblivion
Take
Comment
Vanity

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Like an army defeated the snow hath retreated.
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The thought of our past years in me doth breed perpetual benedictions.
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A mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone.
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The thought of death sits easy on the man Who has been born and dies among the mountains.
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While all the future, for thy purer soul, With sober certainties of love is blest.
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Every gift of noble origin Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath.
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Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.
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The wealthiest man among us is the best
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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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The unconquerable pang of despised love.
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I have felt a presence that disturbs me with the joy of elevated thoughts a sense sublime of something far more deeply interfused, whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, and the round ocean, and the living air, and the blue sky, and in the mind of man.
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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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Books are yours, Within whose silent chambers treasure lies Preserved from age to age more precious far Than that accumulated store of gold And orient gems, which, for a day of need, The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs. These hoards of truth you can unlock at will.
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Neither evil tongues, rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all the dreary intercourse of daily life, shall ever prevail against us.
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The very flowers are sacred to the poor.
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Wisdom and Spirit of the universe! Thou soul, that art the eternity of thought, And giv'st to forms and images a breath And everlasting motion.
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Alas! how little can a moment show Of an eye where feeling plays In ten thousand dewy rays: A face o'er which a thousand shadows go!
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If thou art beautiful, and youth and thought endue thee with all truth-be strong--be worthy of the grace of God.
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Because the good old rule Sufficeth them,-the simple plan, That they should take who have the power, And they should keep who can.
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