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As generations come and go, Their arts, their customs, ebb and flow Fate, fortune, sweep strong powers away, And feeble, of themselves, decay.

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
Fate
Sweep
Generations
Feeble
Strong
Decay
Away
Customs
Art
Arts
Come
Powers
Fortune
Flow
Transience

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But who would force the soul tilts with a straw Against a champion cased in adamant
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Rapt into still communion that transcends The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, His mind was a thanksgiving to the power That made him it was blessedness and love!
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For mightier far Than strength of nerve or sinew, or the sway Of magic potent over sun and star, Is love, though oft to agony distrest, And though his favourite be feeble woman's breast.
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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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Thou unassuming common-place of Nature, with that homely face.
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Earth helped him with the cry of blood.
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Those old credulities, to Nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock Of history?
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Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.
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And now I see with eye serene, The very pulse of the machine. A being breathing thoughtful breaths, A traveler between life and death.
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How fast has brother followed brother, From sunshine to the sunless land!
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Then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils.
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What we have loved Others will love And we will teach them how.
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