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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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But who is innocent? By grace divine, Not otherwise,O Nature! we are thine.
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Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.
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Fear is a cloak which old men huddle about their love, as if to keep it warm.
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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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Happier of happy though I be, like them I cannot take possession of the sky, mount with a thoughtless impulse, and wheel there, one of a mighty multitude whose way and motion is a harmony and dance magnificent.
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Oft on the dappled turf at ease I sit, and play with similes, Loose type of things through all degrees.
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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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His high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright.
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I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough, along the mountain-side. By our own spirits we are deified We Poets in our youth begin in gladness, But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
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Imagination is the means of deep insight and sympathy, the power to conceive and express images removed from normal objective reality.
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Great men have been among us hands that penn'd And tongues that utter'd wisdom--better none
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Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain That has been, and may be again.
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She was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight, A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament Her eyes as stars of twilight fair, Like twilights too her dusky hair, But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn.
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Nor less I deem that there are Powers Which of themselves our minds impress That we can feed this mind of ours In a wise passiveness
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Come grow old with me. The best is yet to be.
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The thought of death sits easy on the man Who has been born and dies among the mountains.
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The Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose.
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Worse than idle is compassion if it ends in tears and sighs.
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But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.
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One impulse from a vernal wood
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