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We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted.

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
Like
Daisies
Pleasant
Thee
Meet
Thought
Wanted

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And when the stream Which overflowed the soul was passed away, A consciousness remained that it had left Deposited upon the silent shore Of memory images and precious thoughts That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed.
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Plain living and high thinking are no more. The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone our peace, our fearful innocence, And pure religion breathing household laws.
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Happier of happy though I be, like them I cannot take possession of the sky, mount with a thoughtless impulse, and wheel there, one of a mighty multitude whose way and motion is a harmony and dance magnificent.
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Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay, And could not win thee, Sleep, by any stealth: So do not let me wear to-night away. Without thee what is all the morning's wealth? Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
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Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretch'd in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
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Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close upon the growing boy.
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Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, Let them live upon their praises.
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But how can he expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?
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The streams with softest sound are flowing, The grass you almost hear it growing, You hear it now, if e'er you can.
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Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares!- The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays.
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We have within ourselves Enough to fill the present day with joy, And overspread the future years with hope.
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A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free.
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And mighty poets in their misery dead.
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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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Monastic brotherhood, upon rock Aerial.
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At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.
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These hoards of wealth you can unlock at will.
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My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard.
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Dreams, books, are each a world.
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We bow our heads before Thee, and we laud, And magnify thy name Almighty God! But man is thy most awful instrument, In working out a pure intent.
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