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Shalt show us how divine a thing A woman may be made.

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
Made
Shalt
Divinity
Divine
Show
Woman
Shows
May
Thing

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A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays And confident tomorrows.
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Tis said, fantastic ocean doth enfold The likeness of whate'er on land is seen.
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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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This solitary Tree! a living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay Of form and aspect too magnificent To be destroyed.
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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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O Reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle Reader! you would find A tale in everything.
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She was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight, A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament Her eyes as stars of twilight fair, Like twilights too her dusky hair, But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn.
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. Not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come.
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Burn all the statutes and their shelves: They stir us up against our kind And worse, against ourselves.
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Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.
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To be a Prodigal's favourite,-then, worse truth, A Miser's pensioner,-behold our lot!
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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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The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, An appetite a feeling and a love that had no need of a remoter charm by thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.
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To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
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The common growth of Mother Earth Suffices me,-her tears, her mirth, Her humblest mirth and tears.
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One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave.
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The memory of the just survives in Heaven.
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Huge and mighty forms that do not live like living men, moved slowly through the mind by day and were trouble to my dreams.
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Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.
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