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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
Thinking
Grieved
Heart
Much
Made
Men
Think

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A babe, by intercourse of touch I held mute dialogues with my Mother's heart.
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She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be But she is in her grave, and oh The difference to me!
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Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed Their snow-white blossoms on my head, With brightest sunshine round me spread Of spring's unclouded weather, In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard-seat! And birds and flowers once more to greet, My last year's friends together.
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May books and nature be their early joy!
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The budding rose above the rose full blown.
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There is One great society alone on earth: The noble living and the noble dead.
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A simple child. That lightly draws its breath. And feels its life in every limb. What should it know of death?
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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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O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?
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Poetry is the outcome of emotions recollected in tranquility.
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Sweet childish days, that were as long, As twenty days are now.
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Every great and original writer, in proportion as he is great and original, must himself create the taste by which he is to be relished.
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Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher.
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Delivered from the galling yoke of time.
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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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Great is the glory, for the strife is hard!
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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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Stay, little cheerful Robin! stay, And at my casement sing, Though it should prove a farewell lay And this our parting spring. * * * * * Then, little Bird, this boon confer, Come, and my requiem sing, Nor fail to be the harbinger Of everlasting spring.
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Stern daughter of the voice of God! O Duty! if that name thou love Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring and reprove.
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