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And he is oft the wisest manWho is not wise at all.

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
Wisest
Wise

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Like thoughts whose very sweetness yielded proof that they were born for immortality.
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I'll teach my boy the sweetest things I'll teach him how the owlet sings.
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Minds that have nothing to confer Find little to perceive.
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But who would force the soul tilts with a straw Against a champion cased in adamant
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A great poet ought to a certain degree to rectify men's feelings... to render their feelings more sane, pure and permanent, in short, more consonant to Nature.
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Great is the glory, for the strife is hard!
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Oft in my way have I stood still, though but a casual passenger, so much I felt the awfulness of life.
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Give unto me, made lowly wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice The confidence of reason give, And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live!
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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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Give all thou canst high Heaven rejects the lore of nicely-caluculated less or more.
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Meek Nature's evening comment on the shows That for oblivion take their daily birth From all the fuming vanities of earth.
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Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.
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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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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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Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows Like harmony in music there is a dark Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles Discordant elements, makes them cling together In one society.
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The light that never was, on sea or land The consecration, and the Poet's dream.
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Books! tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it.
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The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, An appetite a feeling and a love that had no need of a remoter charm by thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.
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This City now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie Open unto the fields and to the sky All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
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And I am happy when I sing.
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