Quote

And now I see with eye serene, The very pulse of the machine. A being breathing thoughtful breaths, A traveler between life and death.

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
Life
Traveler
Thoughtful
Machine
Breathing
Breaths
Machines
Eye
Serene
Death
Pulse

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Ah, what a warning for a thoughtless man, Could field or grove, could any spot of earth, Show to his eye an image of the pangs Which it hath witnessed,-render back an echo Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod!
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For by superior energies more strict affiance in each other faith more firm in their unhallowed principles, the bad have fairly earned a victory over the weak, the vacillating, inconsistent good.
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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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Sweet Mercy! to the gates of heaven This minstrel lead, his sins forgiven The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour, And memory of Earth's bitter leaven Effaced forever.
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A light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove.
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There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream.
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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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A lake carries you into recesses of feeling otherwise impenetrable.
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Dreams, books, are each a world.
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The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an angel's wing.
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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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my brain Worked with a dim and undetermined sense Of unknown modes of being o'er my thoughts There hung a darkness, call it solitude Or blank desertion.
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What is pride? A rocket that emulates the stars.
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Pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.
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One with more of soul in his face than words on his tongue.
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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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Me this uncharted freedom tires I feel the weight of chance desires, My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same.
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