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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
Prodigals
Miser
Misers
Behold
Favourite
Worse
Truth
Prodigal

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Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And, even with something of a mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster child, her inmate man, Forget the glories he hath known And that imperial palace whence he came.
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On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, Musing in solitude, I oft perceive Fair trains of images before me rise, Accompanied by feelings of delight Pure, or with no unpleasing sadness mixed.
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Plain living and high thinking are no more. The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone our peace, our fearful innocence, And pure religion breathing household laws.
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The streams with softest sound are flowing, The grass you almost hear it growing, You hear it now, if e'er you can.
William Wordsworth
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Rest and be thankful.
William Wordsworth
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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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For oft, when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood they flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude
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Worse than idle is compassion if it ends in tears and sighs.
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Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep/ Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind.
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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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Heaven lies about us in our infancy.
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Pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.
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My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began So is it now I am a man.
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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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I travelled among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea Nor England! did I know till then What love I bore to thee.
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O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive!
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Ten thousand saw I at a glance, tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
William Wordsworth
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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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A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by One after one the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky - I've thought of all by turns, and still I lie Sleepless.
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Miss not the occasion by the forelock take that subtle power, the never-halting time.
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