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A deep distress has humanised my soul.

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
Distress
Deep
Soul

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The tears into his eyes were brought, And thanks and praises seemed to run So fast out of his heart, I thought They never would have done. -I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning Alas! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left me mourning.
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The fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.
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What are fears but voices airy? Whispering harm where harm is not. And deluding the unwary Till the fatal bolt is shot!
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But who, if he be called upon to face Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined Great issues, good or bad for humankind, Is happy as a lover.
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And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore.
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There is creation in the eye.
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For youthful faults ripe virtues shall atone.
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But who is innocent? By grace divine, Not otherwise,O Nature! we are thine.
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Thought and theory must precede all action, that moves to salutary purposes. Yet action is nobler in itself than either thought or theory.
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One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.
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I have felt a presence that disturbs me with the joy of elevated thoughts a sense sublime of something far more deeply interfused, whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, and the round ocean, and the living air, and the blue sky, and in the mind of man.
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The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone
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As high as we have mounted in delight, In our dejection do we sink as low.
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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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In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard seat And birds and flowers once more to greet. . . .
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And I am happy when I sing.
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Or shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.
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Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.
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Careless of books, yet having felt the power Of Nature, by the gentle agency Of natural objects, led me on to feel For passions that were not my own, and think (At random and imperfectly indeed) On man, the heart of man, and human life.
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Yet tears to human suffering are due And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown Are mourned by man, and not by man alone.
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