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That inward eye/ Which is the bliss of solitude.

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
Eye
Pensive
Daffodil
Vacant
Inward
Bliss
Solitude

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My apprehension comes in crowds, I dread the rustling of the grass, The very shadows of the clouds, Have power to shake me as they pass, I question things and do not find, one that will answer to my mind, And all the world appears unkind.
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Two voices are there one is of the sea, One of the mountains: each a mighty Voice.
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For all things are less dreadful than they seem.
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Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretch'd in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
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Dreams, books, are each a world and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow.
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Free as a bird to settle where I will.
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The flower that smells the sweetest is shy and lowly.
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A multitude of causes unknown to former times are now acting with a combined force to blunt the discriminating powers of the mind, and unfitting it for all voluntary exertion to reduce it to a state of almost savage torpor.
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Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower.
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Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.
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Knowing that Nature never did betray the heart that loved her 'tis her privilege, through all the years of this our life, to lead from joy to joy.
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We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted.
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Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.
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With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars.
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Either still I find Some imperfection in the chosen theme, Or see of absolute accomplishment Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself, That I recoil and droop, and seek repose In listlessness from vain perplexity, Unprofitably travelling towards the grave.
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And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.
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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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Monastic brotherhood, upon rock Aerial.
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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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Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher.
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