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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
Philosophy
Bosom
Bosoms
Stubborn
Lift
Lifts
Gift
Weight

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Habit rules the unreflecting herd.
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The gods approve The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul.
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Sweet childish days, that were as long, As twenty days are now.
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Dreams, books, are each a world and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow.
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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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Laying out grounds... may be considered as a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.... it is to assist Nature in moving the affections... the affections of those who have the deepest perception of the beauty of Nature.
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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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Since thy return, through days and weeks Of hope that grew by stealth, How many wan and faded cheeks Have kindled into health! The Old, by thee revived, have said, 'Another year is ours' And wayworn Wanderers, poorly fed, Have smiled upon thy flowers.
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He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.
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The soft blue sky did never melt Into his heart he never felt The witchery of the soft blue sky!
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Faith is, necessary to explain anything, and to reconcile the foreknowledge of God with human evil.
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Pictures deface walls more often than they decorate them.
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Sweet is the lore which Nature brings Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: We murder to dissect.
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Books are the best type of the influence of the past.
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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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Bright flower! whose home is everywhere Bold in maternal nature's care And all the long year through the heir Of joy or sorrow, Methinks that there abides in thee Some concord with humanity, Given to no other flower I see The forest through.
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Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.
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The mind of man is a thousand times more beautiful than the earth on which he dwells.
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poetry is the breath and finer spirit of knowledge
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