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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
Heaven
True
Home
Roam
Never
Kindred
Soar
Points
Type
Wise

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The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink I heard a voice it said Drink, pretty creature, drink'
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Nor will I then thy modest grace forget, Chaste Snow-drop, venturous harbinger of Spring, And pensive monitor of fleeting years!
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'Tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes!
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From the body of one guilty deed a thousand ghostly fears and haunting thoughts proceed.
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Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room And hermits are contented with their cells.
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Wisdom sits with children round her knees.
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When men change swords for ledgers, and desert The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed I had, my Country--am I to be blamed?
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'T is hers to pluck the amaranthine flower Of faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower, And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.
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The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.
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Death is the quiet haven of us all.
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Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion.
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And he is oft the wisest manWho is not wise at all.
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The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.
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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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To character and success, two things, contradictory as they may seem, must go together... humble dependence on God and manly reliance on self.
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The clouds that gather round the setting sun, Do take a sober colouring from an eye, That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality.
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It is the 1st mild day of March. Each minute sweeter than before... there is a blessing in the air.
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But to a higher mark than song can reach, Rose this pure eloquence.
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in the mind of man, A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things.
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Truth takes no account of centuries.
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