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And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.

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
Heart
Much
Made
Men
Think
Thinking
Grieved

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I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills When all at once I saw a crowd A host of golden daffodils Beside the lake beneath the trees Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
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The gods approve The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul.
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O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?
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Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge - it is as immortal as the heart of man.
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Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
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Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns.
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Wisdom sits with children round her knees.
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On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, Musing is solitude
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But who would force the soul tilts with a straw Against a champion cased in adamant
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Not Chaos, not the darkest pit of lowest Erebus, nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out by help of dreams - can breed such fear and awe as fall upon us often when we look into our Minds, into the Mind of Man.
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The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.
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He spake of love, such love as spirits feel In worlds whose course is equable and pure No fears to beat away, no strife to heal,- The past unsighed for, and the future sure.
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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 soft blue sky did never melt Into his heart he never felt The witchery of the soft blue sky!
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Ten thousand saw I at a glance, tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
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