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He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.

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
Brooks
Near
Running
Music
Murmurs
Sweeter

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Minds that have nothing to confer Find little to perceive.
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In ourselves our safety must be sought. By our own right hand it must be wrought.
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And what if thou, sweet May, hast known Mishap by worm and blight If expectations newly blown Have perished in thy sight If loves and joys, while up they sprung, Were caught as in a snare Such is the lot of all the young, However bright and fair.
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For youthful faults ripe virtues shall atone.
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Knowledge and increase of enduring joy From the great Nature that exists in works Of mighty Poets.
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The very flowers are sacred to the poor.
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Faith is, necessary to explain anything, and to reconcile the foreknowledge of God with human evil.
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A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays And confident tomorrows.
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Sad fancies do we then affect, In luxury of disrespect To our own prodigal excess Of too familiar happiness.
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Poetry has never brought me in enough money to buy shoestrings.
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The intellectual power, through words and things, Went sounding on a dim and perilous way!
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But to a higher mark than song can reach, Rose this pure eloquence.
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Fear is a cloak which old men huddle about their love, as if to keep it warm.
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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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For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity.
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Hearing often-times the still, sad music of humanity, nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power to chasten and subdue.
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Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade Of that which once was great is passed away.
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