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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
Music
Oftentimes
Hearing
Humanity
Stills
Still

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Those old credulities, to Nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock Of history?
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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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Memories... images and precious thoughts that shall not die and cannot be destroyed.
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Strongest minds are often those whom the noisy world hears least.
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In spite of difference of soil and climate, of language and manners, of laws and customs-in spite of things silently gone out of mind, and things violently destroyed, the Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society, as it is spread over the whole earth, and over all time.
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Take the sweet poetry of life away, and what remains behind?
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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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Primroses, the Spring may love them Summer knows but little of them.
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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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How is it that you live, and what is it you do?
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Books are the best type of the influence of the past.
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Men who can hear the Decalogue, and feel To self-reproach.
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Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.
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Oh, blank confusion! true epitome Of what the mighty City is herself, To thousands upon thousands of her sons, Living amid the same perpetual whirl Of trivial objects, melted and reduced To one identity.
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In ourselves our safety must be sought. By our own right hand it must be wrought.
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Huge and mighty forms that do not live like living men, moved slowly through the mind by day and were trouble to my dreams.
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Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence.
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Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will Dear God! the very houses seem asleep And all that mighty heart is lying still!
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To be young was very heaven!
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The mind that is wise mourns less for what age takes away than what it leaves behind.
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