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Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room And hermits are contented with their cells.

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
Contented
Narrow
Cells
Spirituality
Convent
Room
Nuns
Rooms
Fret
Hermits
Nun

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We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted.
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Every gift of noble origin Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath.
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I have felt a presence that disturbs me with the joy of elevated thoughts a sense sublime of something far more deeply interfused, whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, and the round ocean, and the living air, and the blue sky, and in the mind of man.
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I've watched you now a full half-hour Self-poised upon that yellow flower And, little Butterfly! Indeed I know not if you sleep or feed. How motionless! - not frozen seas More motionless! and then What joy awaits you, when the breeze Hath found you out among the trees, And calls you forth again!
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Great God! I'd rather be a Pagan.
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The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration.
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Knowing that Nature never did betray the heart that loved her 'tis her privilege, through all the years of this our life, to lead from joy to joy.
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Oh, blank confusion! true epitome Of what the mighty City is herself, To thousands upon thousands of her sons, Living amid the same perpetual whirl Of trivial objects, melted and reduced To one identity.
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Behold the Child among his new-born blisses A six years' Darling of a pigmy size! See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly-learned art.
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On a fair prospect some have looked, And felt, as I have heard them say, As if the moving time had been A thing as steadfast as the scene On which they gazed themselves away.
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Give all thou canst high Heaven rejects the lore of nicely-caluculated less or more.
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Pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.
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All men feel a habitual gratitude, and something of an honorable bigotry, for the objects which have long continued to please them.
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In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard seat And birds and flowers once more to greet. . . .
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The gods approve The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul.
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Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows Like harmony in music there is a dark Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles Discordant elements, makes them cling together In one society.
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