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Oh, blank confusion! true epitome Of what the mighty City is herself, To thousands upon thousands of her sons, Living amid the same perpetual whirl Of trivial objects, melted and reduced To one identity.
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
Identity
Reduced
City
Sons
Objects
Mighty
Cities
Blank
Whirl
Upon
Perpetual
Melted
Living
Confusion
Epitome
True
Thousands
Amid
Son
Trivial
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But who shall parcel out His intellect by geometric rules, Split like a province into round and square?
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A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays And confident tomorrows.
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Long as there's a sun that sets, Primroses will have their glory Long as there are violets, They will have a place in story: There's a flower that shall be mine, 'Tis the little Celandine.
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The Eagle, he was lord above
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If thou art beautiful, and youth and thought endue thee with all truth-be strong--be worthy of the grace of God.
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Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.
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Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, We feel that we are greater than we know.
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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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Meek Nature's evening comment on the shows That for oblivion take their daily birth From all the fuming vanities of earth.
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Prompt to move but firm to wait - knowing things rashly sought are rarely found.
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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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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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the Mind of Man-- My haunt, and the main region of my song.
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... and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
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The first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
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