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What is good for a bootless bene? With these dark words begins my tale And their meaning is, Whence can comfort spring When prayer is of no avail?

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
Dark
Whence
Words
Tale
Good
Tales
Begins
Spring
Comfort
Meaning
Bene
Prayer
Avail

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A mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone.
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The mind of man is a thousand times more beautiful than the earth on which he dwells.
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How is it that you live, and what is it you do?
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The child is father of the man: And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
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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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At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.
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The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration.
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Oh, be wise, Thou! Instructed that true knowledge leads to love.
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Nature never did betray the heart that loved her.
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Truths that wake To perish never
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Wisdom married to immortal verse.
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Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science
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Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?
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To be a Prodigal's favourite,-then, worse truth, A Miser's pensioner,-behold our lot!
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Life is divided into three terms - that which was, which is, and which will be. Let us learn from the past to profit by the present, and from the present, to live better in the future.
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With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars.
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A brotherhood of venerable trees.
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Happier of happy though I be, like them I cannot take possession of the sky, mount with a thoughtless impulse, and wheel there, one of a mighty multitude whose way and motion is a harmony and dance magnificent.
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I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough, along the mountain-side. By our own spirits we are deified We Poets in our youth begin in gladness, But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
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