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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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Books are yours, Within whose silent chambers treasure lies Preserved from age to age more precious far Than that accumulated store of gold And orient gems, which, for a day of need, The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs. These hoards of truth you can unlock at will.
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Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.
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Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray.
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The primal duties shine aloft, like stars The charities that soothe, and heal, and bless, Are scattered at the feet of Man, like flowers.
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poetry is the breath and finer spirit of knowledge
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Wisdom married to immortal verse.
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For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity.
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And through the heat of conflict keeps the law In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw.
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Type of the wise who soar but never roam, True to the kindred points of heaven and home.
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By all means sometimes be alone salute thyself see what thy soul doth wear dare to look in thy chest and tumble up and down what thou findest there.
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Oft on the dappled turf at ease I sit, and play with similes, Loose type of things through all degrees.
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Truths that wake To perish never
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A Briton even in love should be A subject, not a slave!
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On a fair prospect some have looked, And felt, as I have heard them say, As if the moving time had been A thing as steadfast as the scene On which they gazed themselves away.
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I should dread to disfigure the beautiful ideal of the memories of illustrious persons with incongruous features, and to sully the imaginative purity of classical works with gross and trivial recollections.
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The silence that is in the starry sky, / The sleep that is among the lonely hills.
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Great God! I'd rather be a Pagan.
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The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.
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The monumental pomp of age Was with this goodly personage A stature undepressed in size, Unbent, which rather seemed to rise In open victory o'er the weight Of seventy years, to loftier height.
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