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To be a Prodigal's favourite,-then, worse truth, A Miser's pensioner,-behold our lot!

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
Favourite
Worse
Truth
Prodigal
Prodigals
Miser
Misers
Behold

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Imagination is the means of deep insight and sympathy, the power to conceive and express images removed from normal objective reality.
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Everything is tedious when one does not read with the feeling of the Author.
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Who, doomed to go in company with Pain And Fear and Bloodshed,-miserable train!- Turns his necessity to glorious gain.
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Imagination, which in truth Is but another name for absolute power And clearest insight, amplitude of mind, And reason, in her most exalted mood.
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Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
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This City now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie Open unto the fields and to the sky All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
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Plain living and high thinking are no more.
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With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars.
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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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The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone
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The child is father of the man: And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
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One with more of soul in his face than words on his tongue.
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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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Sad fancies do we then affect, In luxury of disrespect To our own prodigal excess Of too familiar happiness.
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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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To be young was very heaven!
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But how can he expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?
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Great God! I'd rather be a Pagan.
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Poetry is emotion recollected in tranquillity.
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Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.
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