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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
Weight
Philosophy
Bosom
Bosoms
Stubborn
Lift
Lifts
Gift

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Like thoughts whose very sweetness yielded proof that they were born for immortality.
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Oh for a single hour of that Dundee Who on that day the word of onset gave!
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I've watched you now a full half-hour Self-poised upon that yellow flower And, little Butterfly! Indeed I know not if you sleep or feed. How motionless! - not frozen seas More motionless! and then What joy awaits you, when the breeze Hath found you out among the trees, And calls you forth again!
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Either still I find Some imperfection in the chosen theme, Or see of absolute accomplishment Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself, That I recoil and droop, and seek repose In listlessness from vain perplexity, Unprofitably travelling towards the grave.
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Huge and mighty forms that do not live like living men, moved slowly through the mind by day and were trouble to my dreams.
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I'll teach my boy the sweetest things I'll teach him how the owlet sings.
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How fast has brother followed brother, From sunshine to the sunless land!
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Since every mortal power of Coleridge Was frozen at its marvellous source, The rapt one, of the godlike forehead, The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth: And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, Has vanished from his lonely hearth.
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A Primrose by a river's brim A yellow primrose was to him And it was something more.
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Rest and be thankful.
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Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence.
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Yet sometimes, when the secret cup Of still and serious thought went round, It seemed as if he drank it up, He felt with spirit so profound.
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Chains tie us down by land and sea And wishes, vain as mine, may be All that is left to comfort thee.
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