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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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Nature's old felicities.
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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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A cheerful life is what the Muses love. A soaring spirit is their prime delight.
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The tears into his eyes were brought, And thanks and praises seemed to run So fast out of his heart, I thought They never would have done. -I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning Alas! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left me mourning.
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Or shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.
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How is it that you live, and what is it you do?
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For mightier far Than strength of nerve or sinew, or the sway Of magic potent over sun and star, Is love, though oft to agony distrest, And though his favourite be feeble woman's breast.
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He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.
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We murder to dissect.
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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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Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray.
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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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Imagination is the means of deep insight and sympathy, the power to conceive and express images removed from normal objective reality.
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The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.
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Then blame not those who, by the mightiest lever Known to the moral world, Imagination.
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Pleasures newly found are sweet When they lie about our feet.
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Not in Utopia, -- subterranean fields, --Or some secreted island, Heaven knows whereBut in the very world, which is the worldOf all of us, -- the place where in the endWe find our happiness, or not at all
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Open-mindedness is the harvest of a quiet eye.
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Like an army defeated the snow hath retreated.
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