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For all things are less dreadful than they seem.

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
Dreadful
Perspective
Seem
Less
Seems
Things

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Alas! how little can a moment show Of an eye where feeling plays In ten thousand dewy rays: A face o'er which a thousand shadows go!
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I've watched you now a full half-hour Self-poised upon that yellow flower And, little Butterfly! Indeed I know not if you sleep or feed. How motionless! - not frozen seas More motionless! and then What joy awaits you, when the breeze Hath found you out among the trees, And calls you forth again!
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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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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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A famous man is Robin Hood, The English ballad-singer's joy.
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Either still I find Some imperfection in the chosen theme, Or see of absolute accomplishment Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself, That I recoil and droop, and seek repose In listlessness from vain perplexity, Unprofitably travelling towards the grave.
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In truth the prison, unto which we doom Ourselves, no prison is.
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Memories... images and precious thoughts that shall not die and cannot be destroyed.
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Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
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Like an army defeated the snow hath retreated.
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Let the moon shine on the in thy solitary walk and let the misty mountain-winds be free to blow against thee.
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For by superior energies more strict affiance in each other faith more firm in their unhallowed principles, the bad have fairly earned a victory over the weak, the vacillating, inconsistent good.
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Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence.
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But how can he expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?
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Shalt show us how divine a thing A woman may be made.
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Scorn not the sonnet. Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart.
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Wisdom and Spirit of the universe! Thou soul, that art the eternity of thought, And giv'st to forms and images a breath And everlasting motion.
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Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain That has been, and may be again.
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In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease and, of its joy secure, The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, And on the vacant air.
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A babe, by intercourse of touch I held mute dialogues with my Mother's heart.
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