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Type of the wise who soar but never roam, True to the kindred points of heaven and home.

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
Points
Type
Wise
Heaven
True
Home
Roam
Never
Kindred
Soar

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A power is passing from the earth.
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The primal duties shine aloft, like stars The charities that soothe, and heal, and bless, Are scattered at the feet of Man, like flowers.
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I'm not talking about a show me other walls of this thing button, I mean a stumble button for wallbase.
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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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Bright gem instinct with music, vocal spark.
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Neither evil tongues, rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all the dreary intercourse of daily life, shall ever prevail against us.
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A brotherhood of venerable trees.
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And you must love him, ere to you He will seem worthy of your love.
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What is pride? A rocket that emulates the stars.
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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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Spires whose silent finger points to heaven.
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar.
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Books are the best type of the influence of the past.
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For youthful faults ripe virtues shall atone.
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Open-mindedness is the harvest of a quiet eye.
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Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee! . . . . . . Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart: So didst thou travel on life's common way In cheerful godliness.
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Action is transitory, a step, a blow, The motion of a muscle, this way or that, 'Tis done--And in the after-vacancy, We wonder at ourselves, like men betrayed.
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Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows Like harmony in music there is a dark Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles Discordant elements, makes them cling together In one society.
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True dignity abides with him alone Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, Can still suspect, and still revere himself, In lowliness of heart.
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That blessed mood in which the burthen of the mystery, in which the heavy and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world is lightened.
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