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Earth helped him with the cry of blood.

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
Helped
Cry
Blood
Earth

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To the solid ground Of nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye.
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A mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone.
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A soul so pitiably forlorn, If such do on this earth abide, May season apathy with scorn, May turn indifference to pride And still be not unblest- compared With him who grovels, self-debarred From all that lies within the scope Of holy faith and christian hope Or, shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.
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With little here to do or see Of things that in the great world be, Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee For thou art worthy, Thou unassuming commonplace Of Nature, with that homely face, And yet with something of a grace Which love makes for thee!
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The softest breeze to fairest flowers gives birth: Think not that Prudence dwells in dark abodes, She scans the future with the eye of gods.
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Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher.
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Society became my glittering bride, And airy hopes my children.
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Two voices are there one is of the sea, One of the mountains: each a mighty Voice.
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My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began So is it now I am a man.
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Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind--But how could I forget thee?
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Whether we be young or old,Our destiny, our being's heart and home,Is with infinitude, and only thereWith hope it is, hope that can never die,Effort and expectation, and desire,And something evermore about to be.
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How many undervalue the power of simplicity ! But it is the real key to the heart.
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Oft in my way have I stood still, though but a casual passenger, so much I felt the awfulness of life.
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To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
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Ten thousand saw I at a glance, tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
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In ourselves our safety must be sought. By our own right hand it must be wrought.
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Yet sometimes, when the secret cup Of still and serious thought went round, It seemed as if he drank it up, He felt with spirit so profound.
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And he is oft the wisest manWho is not wise at all.
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To be a Prodigal's favourite,-then, worse truth, A Miser's pensioner,-behold our lot!
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My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard.
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