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And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore.

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
Often
Yore
Glad
Wear
Joy
Face
Faces

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Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher.
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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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Primroses, the Spring may love them Summer knows but little of them.
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.
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A babe, by intercourse of touch I held mute dialogues with my Mother's heart.
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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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Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion.
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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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Minds that have nothing to confer Find little to perceive.
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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 sightless Milton, with his hair Around his placid temples curled And Shakespeare at his side,-a freight, If clay could think and mind were weight, For him who bore the world!
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And I am happy when I sing.
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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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A mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone.
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And the most difficult of tasks to keep Heights which the soul is competent to gain.
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The softest breeze to fairest flowers gives birth: Think not that Prudence dwells in dark abodes, She scans the future with the eye of gods.
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That to this mountain-daisy's self were known The beauty of its star-shaped shadow, thrown On the smooth surface of this naked stone!
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With little here to do or see Of things that in the great world be, Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee For thou art worthy, Thou unassuming commonplace Of Nature, with that homely face, And yet with something of a grace Which love makes for thee!
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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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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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