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But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.

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
Humanity
Stills
Still
Music
Oftentimes
Hearing

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Death is the quiet haven of us all.
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Knowing that Nature never did betray the heart that loved her 'tis her privilege, through all the years of this our life, to lead from joy to joy.
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the Mind of Man-- My haunt, and the main region of my song.
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Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay, And could not win thee, Sleep, by any stealth: So do not let me wear to-night away. Without thee what is all the morning's wealth? Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
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This City now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie Open unto the fields and to the sky All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
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The ocean is a mighty harmonist.
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Rest and be thankful.
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When men change swords for ledgers, and desert The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed I had, my Country--am I to be blamed?
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Father! - to God himself we cannot give a holier name.
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To character and success, two things, contradictory as they may seem, must go together... humble dependence on God and manly reliance on self.
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I, methought, while the sweet breath of heaven Was blowing on my body, felt within A correspondent breeze, that gently moved With quickening virtue, but is now become A tempest, a redundant energy, Vexing its own creation.
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One with more of soul in his face than words on his tongue.
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Let Nature be your teacher
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Come grow old with me. The best is yet to be.
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Then blame not those who, by the mightiest lever Known to the moral world, Imagination.
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Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind--But how could I forget thee?
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Books are the best type of the influence of the past.
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Not in Utopia, -- subterranean fields, --Or some secreted island, Heaven knows whereBut in the very world, which is the worldOf all of us, -- the place where in the endWe find our happiness, or not at all
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Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.
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The very flowers are sacred to the poor.
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