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Death is the quiet haven of us all.

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
Havens
Haven
Quiet
Death

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Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity.
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Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay, And could not win thee, Sleep, by any stealth: So do not let me wear to-night away. Without thee what is all the morning's wealth? Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
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Like an army defeated the snow hath retreated.
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The memory of the just survives in Heaven.
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Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect
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O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?
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The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration.
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Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room And hermits are contented with their cells.
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How does the Meadow flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free down to its root, and in that freedom bold.
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Free as a bird to settle where I will.
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One with more of soul in his face than words on his tongue.
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Now when the primrose makes a splendid show, And lilies face the March-winds in full blow, And humbler growths as moved with one desire Put on, to welcome spring, their best attire, Poor Robin is yet flowerless but how gay With his red stalks upon this sunny day!
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Life is divided into three terms - that which was, which is, and which will be. Let us learn from the past to profit by the present, and from the present, to live better in the future.
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Neither evil tongues, rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all the dreary intercourse of daily life, shall ever prevail against us.
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The first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
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Spade! Thou art a tool of honor in my hands. I press thee, through a yielding soil, with pride.
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