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Men who can hear the Decalogue, and feel To self-reproach.

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
Reproach
Hear
Self
Feel
Feels
Men

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A light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove.
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One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.
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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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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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To character and success, two things, contradictory as they may seem, must go together... humble dependence on God and manly reliance on self.
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Pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.
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But an old age serene and bright, and lovely as a Lapland night, shall lead thee to thy grave.
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Wisdom sits with children round her knees.
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In truth the prison, unto which we doom Ourselves, no prison is.
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When men change swords for ledgers, and desert The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed I had, my Country--am I to be blamed?
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And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore.
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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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A power is passing from the earth.
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Small service is true service, while it lasts.
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Earth has not anything to show more fair.
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Dreams, books, are each a world.
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Great God! I'd rather be a Pagan.
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Bright was the summer's noon when quickening steps Followed each other till a dreary moor Was crossed, a bare ridge clomb, upon whose top Standing alone, as from a rampart's edge, I overlooked the bed of Windermere, Like a vast river, stretching in the sun.
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Habit rules the unreflecting herd.
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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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