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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
Misers
Behold
Favourite
Worse
Truth
Prodigal
Prodigals
Miser

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The soft blue sky did never melt Into his heart he never felt The witchery of the soft blue sky!
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Chains tie us down by land and sea And wishes, vain as mine, may be All that is left to comfort thee.
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Dreams, books, are each a world.
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We murder to dissect.
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With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars.
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Therefore am I still a lover of the meadows and the woods, and mountains and of all that we behold from this green earth.
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A light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove.
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That best portion of a man's life, his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love.
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For mightier far Than strength of nerve or sinew, or the sway Of magic potent over sun and star, Is love, though oft to agony distrest, And though his favourite be feeble woman's breast.
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A famous man is Robin Hood, The English ballad-singer's joy.
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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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The Poet, gentle creature as he is, Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times His fits when he is neither sick nor well, Though no distress be near him but his own Unmanageable thoughts.
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The harvest of a quiet eye, That broods and sleeps on his own heart.
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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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Long as there's a sun that sets, Primroses will have their glory Long as there are violets, They will have a place in story: There's a flower that shall be mine, 'Tis the little Celandine.
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Then blame not those who, by the mightiest lever Known to the moral world, Imagination.
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One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave.
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