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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
Intellect
Parcel
Rules
Provinces
Shall
Split
Like
Splits
Square
Squares
Round
Geometric
Rounds
Province
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One impulse from a vernal wood
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A famous man is Robin Hood, The English ballad-singer's joy.
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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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That to this mountain-daisy's self were known The beauty of its star-shaped shadow, thrown On the smooth surface of this naked stone!
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Serene will be our days, and bright and happy will our nature be, when love is an unerring light, and joy its own security.
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Primroses, the Spring may love them Summer knows but little of them.
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Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?
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He who feels contempt for any living thing hath faculties that he hath never used, and thought with him is in its infancy.
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In ourselves our safety must be sought. By our own right hand it must be wrought.
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar.
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in the mind of man, A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things.
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Rapt into still communion that transcends The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, His mind was a thanksgiving to the power That made him it was blessedness and love!
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In years that bring the philosophic mind.
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But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.
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I should dread to disfigure the beautiful ideal of the memories of illustrious persons with incongruous features, and to sully the imaginative purity of classical works with gross and trivial recollections.
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Science appears but what in truth she is, Not as our glory and our absolute boast, But as a succedaneum, and a prop To our infirmity.
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Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray.
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No motion has she now, no force she neither hears nor sees rolled around in earth's diurnal course, with rocks, and stones, and trees.
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