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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

More quotes by William Wordsworth

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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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On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, Musing in solitude, I oft perceive Fair trains of images before me rise, Accompanied by feelings of delight Pure, or with no unpleasing sadness mixed.
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With little here to do or see Of things that in the great world be, Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee For thou art worthy, Thou unassuming commonplace Of Nature, with that homely face, And yet with something of a grace Which love makes for thee!
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Pleasures newly found are sweet When they lie about our feet.
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But He is risen, a later star of dawn.
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This City now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie Open unto the fields and to the sky All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
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True beauty dwells in deep retreats, Whose veil is unremoved Till heart with heart in concord beats, And the lover is beloved.
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The common growth of Mother Earth Suffices me,-her tears, her mirth, Her humblest mirth and tears.
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Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters.
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Lady of the Mere, Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.
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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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Father! - to God himself we cannot give a holier name.
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He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.
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Thou has left behind Powers that will work for thee,-air, earth, and skies! There 's not a breathing of the common wind That will forget thee thou hast great allies Thy friends are exultations, agonies, And love, and man's unconquerable mind.
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Brothers all In honour, as in one community, Scholars and gentlemen.
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There is a luxury in self-dispraise And inward self-disparagement affords To meditative spleen a grateful feast.
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A light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove.
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Careless of books, yet having felt the power Of Nature, by the gentle agency Of natural objects, led me on to feel For passions that were not my own, and think (At random and imperfectly indeed) On man, the heart of man, and human life.
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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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Since thy return, through days and weeks Of hope that grew by stealth, How many wan and faded cheeks Have kindled into health! The Old, by thee revived, have said, 'Another year is ours' And wayworn Wanderers, poorly fed, Have smiled upon thy flowers.
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