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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
Poet
Youth
Ends
Despondency
Come
Thereof
Gladness
Poets
Madness
Begin

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Where the statue stood Of Newton, with his prism and silent face, The marble index of a mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of thought alone.
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Prompt to move but firm to wait - knowing things rashly sought are rarely found.
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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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Worse than idle is compassion if it ends in tears and sighs.
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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 unconquerable pang of despised love.
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The primal duties shine aloft, like stars The charities that soothe, and heal, and bless, Are scattered at the feet of Man, like flowers.
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Happier of happy though I be, like them I cannot take possession of the sky, mount with a thoughtless impulse, and wheel there, one of a mighty multitude whose way and motion is a harmony and dance magnificent.
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If the time should ever come when what is now called Science, thus famliarised to men, shall be ready to put on, as it were, a form of flesh and blood, the Poet will lend his divine spirit to the aid the transfiguration, and will welcome the Being thus produced, as a dear and genuine inmate of the household of man.
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Great is the glory, for the strife is hard!
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And what if thou, sweet May, hast known Mishap by worm and blight If expectations newly blown Have perished in thy sight If loves and joys, while up they sprung, Were caught as in a snare Such is the lot of all the young, However bright and fair.
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When from our better selves we have too long been parted by the hurrying world, and droop. Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, how gracious, how benign is solitude.
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Of friends, however humble, scorn not one.
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Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will Dear God! the very houses seem asleep And all that mighty heart is lying still!
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In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease and, of its joy secure, The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, And on the vacant air.
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By happy chance we saw A twofold image: on a grassy bank A snow-white ram, and in the crystal flood Another and the same!
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The child is father of the man.
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What are fears but voices airy? Whispering harm where harm is not. And deluding the unwary Till the fatal bolt is shot!
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In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts bring sad thoughts to the mind.
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