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Minds that have nothing to confer Find little to perceive.

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
Little
Nothing
Mind
Confer
Perceive
Minds
Littles
Find

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Recognizes ever and anon The breeze of Nature stirring in his soul.
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In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts bring sad thoughts to the mind.
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... and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
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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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Plain living and high thinking are no more.
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Stop thinking for once in your life!
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Love betters what is best
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A Primrose by a river's brim A yellow primrose was to him And it was something more.
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And mighty poets in their misery dead.
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And you must love him, ere to you He will seem worthy of your love.
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Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?
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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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Tis said, fantastic ocean doth enfold The likeness of whate'er on land is seen.
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I, methought, while the sweet breath of heaven Was blowing on my body, felt within A correspondent breeze, that gently moved With quickening virtue, but is now become A tempest, a redundant energy, Vexing its own creation.
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Laying out grounds... may be considered as a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.... it is to assist Nature in moving the affections... the affections of those who have the deepest perception of the beauty of Nature.
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Monastic brotherhood, upon rock Aerial.
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Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.
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May books and nature be their early joy!
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Whether we be young or old,Our destiny, our being's heart and home,Is with infinitude, and only thereWith hope it is, hope that can never die,Effort and expectation, and desire,And something evermore about to be.
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The fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.
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