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The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.

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
Bosom
Bosoms
Stubborn
Lift
Lifts
Gift
Weight
Philosophy

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The gods approve The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul.
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Men who can hear the Decalogue, and feel To self-reproach.
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I am already kindly disposed towards you. My friendship it is not in my power to give: this is a gift which no man can make, it is not in our own power: a sound and healthy friendship is the growth of time and circumstance, it will spring up and thrive like a wildflower when these favour, and when they do not, it is in vain to look for it.
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Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters.
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The intellectual power, through words and things, Went sounding on a dim and perilous way!
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Prompt to move but firm to wait - knowing things rashly sought are rarely found.
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Wrongs unredressed, or insults unavenged.
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On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, Musing is solitude
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His high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright.
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Earth has not anything to show more fair.
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This solitary Tree! a living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay Of form and aspect too magnificent To be destroyed.
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Take the sweet poetry of life away, and what remains behind?
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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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Thou has left behind Powers that will work for thee,-air, earth, and skies! There 's not a breathing of the common wind That will forget thee thou hast great allies Thy friends are exultations, agonies, And love, and man's unconquerable mind.
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The wealthiest man among us is the best
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Those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings Blank misgivings of a Creature Moving about in worlds not realised, High instincts before which our mortal Nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised
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Spade! Thou art a tool of honor in my hands. I press thee, through a yielding soil, with pride.
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Often have I sighed to measure By myself a lonely pleasure,- Sighed to think I read a book, Only read, perhaps, by me.
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Departing summer hath assumed An aspect tenderly illumed, The gentlest look of spring That calls from yonder leafy shade Unfaded, yet prepared to fade, A timely carolling.
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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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