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We Poets in our youth begin in gladness But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
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
Madness
Begin
Poet
Youth
Ends
Despondency
Come
Thereof
Gladness
Poets
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Thou unassuming common-place of Nature, with that homely face.
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The child shall become father to the man.
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Great God! I'd rather be a Pagan.
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Scorn not the sonnet. Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart.
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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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Tis not in battles that from youth we train The Governor who must be wise and good, And temper with the sternness of the brain Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood.
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Chains tie us down by land and sea And wishes, vain as mine, may be All that is left to comfort thee.
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The budding rose above the rose full blown.
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There is a comfort in the strength of love 'Twill make a thing endurable, which else would overset the brain, or break the heart.
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And through the heat of conflict keeps the law In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw.
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But to a higher mark than song can reach, Rose this pure eloquence.
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Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour Have passed away less happy than the one That by the unwilling ploughshare died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love.
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Shalt show us how divine a thing A woman may be made.
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Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.
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The wind, a sightless laborer, whistles at his task.
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What is good for a bootless bene? With these dark words begins my tale And their meaning is, Whence can comfort spring When prayer is of no avail?
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To be a Prodigal's favourite,-then, worse truth, A Miser's pensioner,-behold our lot!
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The memory of the just survives in Heaven.
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Sad fancies do we then affect, In luxury of disrespect To our own prodigal excess Of too familiar happiness.
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Let beeves and home-bred kine partake The sweets of Burn-mill meadow The swan on still St. Mary's Lake Float double, swan and shadow!
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