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Then blame not those who, by the mightiest lever Known to the moral world, Imagination.

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
Levers
Blame
Imagination
Moral
Known
World
Lever
Mightiest

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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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We live by admiration, hope and love.
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Books! tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it.
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Strongest minds are often those whom the noisy world hears least.
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Pictures deface walls more often than they decorate them.
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We murder to dissect.
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My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began So is it now I am a man.
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Let beeves and home-bred kine partake The sweets of Burn-mill meadow The swan on still St. Mary's Lake Float double, swan and shadow!
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In ourselves our safety must be sought. By our own right hand it must be wrought.
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Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep/ Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind.
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Sweet is the lore which Nature brings Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: We murder to dissect.
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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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His high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright.
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The wealthiest man among us is the best
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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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A simple child. That lightly draws its breath. And feels its life in every limb. What should it know of death?
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Recognizes ever and anon The breeze of Nature stirring in his soul.
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The Primrose for a veil had spread The largest of her upright leaves And thus for purposes benign, A simple flower deceives.
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And mighty poets in their misery dead.
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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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