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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
Near
Running
Music
Murmurs
Sweeter
Brooks

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Rapt into still communion that transcends The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, His mind was a thanksgiving to the power That made him it was blessedness and love!
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Be mild, and cleave to gentle things, thy glory and thy happiness be there.
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Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.
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In heaven above, And earth below, they best can serve true gladness Who meet most feelingly the calls of sadness.
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When his veering gait And every motion of his starry train Seem governed by a strain Of music, audible to him alone.
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A mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone.
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That inward eye/ Which is the bliss of solitude.
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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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The ocean is a mighty harmonist.
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Hope smiled when your nativity was cast, Children of Summer!
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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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Plain living and high thinking are no more.
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Brothers all In honour, as in one community, Scholars and gentlemen.
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When from our better selves we have too long been parted by the hurrying world, and droop. Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, how gracious, how benign is solitude.
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The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.
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Milton, thou should'st be living at this hour.
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