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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
Much
Made
Men
Think
Thinking
Grieved
Heart

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The wind, a sightless laborer, whistles at his task.
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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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A deep distress has humanised my soul.
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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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As thou these ashes, little brook, wilt bear Into the Avon, Avon to the tide Of Severn, Severn to the narrow seas, Into main ocean they, this deed accursed An emblem yields to friends and enemies How the bold teacher's doctrine, sanctified By truth, shall spread, throughout the world dispersed.
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O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive!
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Minds that have nothing to confer Find little to perceive.
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Miss not the occasion by the forelock take that subtle power, the never-halting time.
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The child shall become father to the man.
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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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We Poets in our youth begin in gladness But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
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Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive But to be young was very heaven.
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'T is hers to pluck the amaranthine flower Of faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower, And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.
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Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn
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Of friends, however humble, scorn not one.
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Great men have been among us hands that penn'd And tongues that utter'd wisdom--better none
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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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The monumental pomp of age Was with this goodly personage A stature undepressed in size, Unbent, which rather seemed to rise In open victory o'er the weight Of seventy years, to loftier height.
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His love was like the liberal air, embracing all, to cheer and bless.
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