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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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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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To the solid ground Of nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye.
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Bright flower! whose home is everywhere Bold in maternal nature's care And all the long year through the heir Of joy or sorrow, Methinks that there abides in thee Some concord with humanity, Given to no other flower I see The forest through.
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... and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
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How fast has brother followed brother, From sunshine to the sunless land!
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The moving accident is not my trade To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.
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There's something in a flying horse, There's something in a huge balloon.
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Plain living and high thinking are no more.
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A brotherhood of venerable trees.
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The soft blue sky did never melt Into his heart he never felt The witchery of the soft blue sky!
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The very flowers are sacred to the poor.
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Where the statue stood Of Newton, with his prism and silent face, The marble index of a mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of thought alone.
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Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.
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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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Sweet Mercy! to the gates of heaven This minstrel lead, his sins forgiven The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour, And memory of Earth's bitter leaven Effaced forever.
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Serene will be our days, and bright and happy will our nature be, when love is an unerring light, and joy its own security.
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Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room And hermits are contented with their cells.
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There is creation in the eye.
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Then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils.
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That kill the bloom before its time, And blanch, without the owner's crime, The most resplendent hair.
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