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We have within ourselves Enough to fill the present day with joy, And overspread the future years with hope.

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
Hope
Enough
Years
Fill
Joy
Present
Within
Future

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The vision and the faculty divine Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse.
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The daisy, by the shadow that it casts, Protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun.
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There is One great society alone on earth: The noble living and the noble dead.
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Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge - it is as immortal as the heart of man.
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In spite of difference of soil and climate, of language and manners, of laws and customs-in spite of things silently gone out of mind, and things violently destroyed, the Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society, as it is spread over the whole earth, and over all time.
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Miss not the occasion by the forelock take that subtle power, the never-halting time.
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Wild is the music of autumnal winds Amongst the faded woods.
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Great is the glory, for the strife is hard!
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A lawyer art thou? Draw not nigh! Go, carry to some fitter place The keenness of that practised eye, The hardness of that sallow face.
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But to a higher mark than song can reach, Rose this pure eloquence.
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'Tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes!
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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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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.
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Dreams, books, are each a world.
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Pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.
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Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence.
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Wrongs unredressed, or insults unavenged.
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By all means sometimes be alone salute thyself see what thy soul doth wear dare to look in thy chest and tumble up and down what thou findest there.
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And mighty poets in their misery dead.
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Bright flower! whose home is everywhere Bold in maternal nature's care And all the long year through the heir Of joy or sorrow, Methinks that there abides in thee Some concord with humanity, Given to no other flower I see The forest through.
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