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Fear is a cloak which old men huddle about their love, as if to keep it warm.

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
Cloaks
Warm
Fear
Keep
Men
Love
Huddle
Cloak

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Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect
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A multitude of causes unknown to former times are now acting with a combined force to blunt the discriminating powers of the mind, and unfitting it for all voluntary exertion to reduce it to a state of almost savage torpor.
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But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.
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Great is the glory, for the strife is hard!
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Enough, if something from our hands have power To live, and act, and serve the future hour And if, as toward the silent tomb we go, Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, We feel that we are greater than we know.
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By happy chance we saw A twofold image: on a grassy bank A snow-white ram, and in the crystal flood Another and the same!
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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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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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She gave me eyes, she gave me ears And humble cares, and delicate fears A heart, the fountain of sweet tears And love and thought and joy.
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Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, Let them live upon their praises.
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It is the 1st mild day of March. Each minute sweeter than before... there is a blessing in the air.
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On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, Musing is solitude
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The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.
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