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That mighty orb of song, The divine Milton.

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
Orbs
Milton
Mighty
Divinity
Divine
Song

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Memories... images and precious thoughts that shall not die and cannot be destroyed.
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Not in Utopia, -- subterranean fields, --Or some secreted island, Heaven knows whereBut in the very world, which is the worldOf all of us, -- the place where in the endWe find our happiness, or not at all
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If thou art beautiful, and youth and thought endue thee with all truth-be strong--be worthy of the grace of God.
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Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, We feel that we are greater than we know.
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Wild is the music of autumnal winds Amongst the faded woods.
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Wisdom is oftentimes nearer when we stoop than when we soar.
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In years that bring the philosophic mind.
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Miss not the occasion by the forelock take that subtle power, the never-halting time.
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Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray.
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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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The child is the father of man.
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But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.
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Poetry is emotion recollected in tranquillity.
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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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Sweet Mercy! to the gates of heaven This minstrel lead, his sins forgiven The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour, And memory of Earth's bitter leaven Effaced forever.
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Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will Dear God! the very houses seem asleep And all that mighty heart is lying still!
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A lawyer art thou? Draw not nigh! Go, carry to some fitter place The keenness of that practised eye, The hardness of that sallow face.
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Give all thou canst high Heaven rejects the lore of nicely-caluculated less or more.
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Me this uncharted freedom tires I feel the weight of chance desires, My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same.
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A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free.
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