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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.

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
God
Intent
Pure
Bows
Name
Almighty
Names
Heads
Working
Instrument
Men
Awful
Instruments
Laud
Thee
Magnify

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Oh, blank confusion! true epitome Of what the mighty City is herself, To thousands upon thousands of her sons, Living amid the same perpetual whirl Of trivial objects, melted and reduced To one identity.
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Sad fancies do we then affect, In luxury of disrespect To our own prodigal excess Of too familiar happiness.
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But an old age serene and bright, and lovely as a Lapland night, shall lead thee to thy grave.
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Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns.
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Everything is tedious when one does not read with the feeling of the Author.
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Be mild, and cleave to gentle things, thy glory and thy happiness be there.
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True beauty dwells in deep retreats, Whose veil is unremoved Till heart with heart in concord beats, And the lover is beloved.
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Wisdom and Spirit of the universe! Thou soul, that art the eternity of thought, And giv'st to forms and images a breath And everlasting motion.
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Pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.
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Take the sweet poetry of life away, and what remains behind?
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Open-mindedness is the harvest of a quiet eye.
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Before us lay a painful road, And guidance have I sought in duteous love From Wisdom's heavenly Father. Hence hath flowed Patience, with trust that, whatsoe'er the way Each takes in this high matter, all may move Cheered with the prospect of a brighter day.
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All men feel a habitual gratitude, and something of an honorable bigotry, for the objects which have long continued to please them.
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Of friends, however humble, scorn not one.
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Free as a bird to settle where I will.
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Men who can hear the Decalogue, and feel To self-reproach.
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poetry is the breath and finer spirit of knowledge
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A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
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Nature's old felicities.
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Not in Utopia, -- subterranean fields, --Or some secreted island, Heaven knows whereBut in the very world, which is the worldOf all of us, -- the place where in the endWe find our happiness, or not at all
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