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But who shall parcel out His intellect by geometric rules, Split like a province into round and square?

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
Round
Geometric
Rounds
Province
Intellect
Parcel
Rules
Provinces
Shall
Split
Like
Splits
Square
Squares

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From the body of one guilty deed a thousand ghostly fears and haunting thoughts proceed.
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Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence.
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True beauty dwells in deep retreats, Whose veil is unremoved Till heart with heart in concord beats, And the lover is beloved.
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The moving accident is not my trade To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.
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The wealthiest man among us is the best
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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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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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And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore.
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Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed Their snow-white blossoms on my head, With brightest sunshine round me spread Of spring's unclouded weather, In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard-seat! And birds and flowers once more to greet, My last year's friends together.
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May books and nature be their early joy!
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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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Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.
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Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet
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Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.
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Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray.
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Action is transitory, a step, a blow, The motion of a muscle, this way or that, 'Tis done--And in the after-vacancy, We wonder at ourselves, like men betrayed.
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one daffodil is worth a thousand pleasures, then one is too few.
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The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.
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In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease and, of its joy secure, The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, And on the vacant air.
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