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

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Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed Their snow-white blossoms on my head, With brightest sunshine round me spread Of spring's unclouded weather, In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard-seat! And birds and flowers once more to greet, My last year's friends together.
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That inward eye/ Which is the bliss of solitude.
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And when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet whence he blew Soul-animating strains,-alas! too few.
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Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry and these we adore Plain living and high thinking are no more.
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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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The childhood of today is the manhood of tomorrow
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O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?
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Give unto me, made lowly wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice The confidence of reason give, And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live!
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It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the sea: Listen! the mighty being is awake, And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thundereverlastingly.
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The streams with softest sound are flowing, The grass you almost hear it growing, You hear it now, if e'er you can.
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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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Two voices are there one is of the sea, One of the mountains: each a mighty Voice.
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Great God! I'd rather be a Pagan.
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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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Monastic brotherhood, upon rock Aerial.
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Up! up! my friend, and quit your books, Or surely you 'll grow double! Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks! Why all this toil and trouble?
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Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.
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We have within ourselves Enough to fill the present day with joy, And overspread the future years with hope.
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