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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
Hear
Self
Feel
Feels
Men
Reproach

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Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none / Look up a second time, and, one by one, / You mark them twinkling out with silvery light, / And wonder how they could elude the sight!
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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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Stop thinking for once in your life!
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Let the moon shine on the in thy solitary walk and let the misty mountain-winds be free to blow against thee.
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Spires whose silent finger points to heaven.
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Tis not in battles that from youth we train The Governor who must be wise and good, And temper with the sternness of the brain Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood.
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Yet tears to human suffering are due And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown Are mourned by man, and not by man alone.
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That though the radiance which was once so bright be now forever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, glory in the flower. We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
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'Tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes!
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Type of the wise who soar but never roam, True to the kindred points of heaven and home.
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As high as we have mounted in delight, In our dejection do we sink as low.
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I look for ghosts but none will force Their way to me. 'Tis falsely said That there was ever intercourse Between the living and the dead.
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A great poet ought to a certain degree to rectify men's feelings... to render their feelings more sane, pure and permanent, in short, more consonant to Nature.
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Sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart.
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Death is the quiet haven of us all.
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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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Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.
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the Mind of Man-- My haunt, and the main region of my song.
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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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We live by Admiration, Hope, and Love And, even as these are well and wisely fixed, In dignity of being we ascend.
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