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Science appears but what in truth she is, Not as our glory and our absolute boast, But as a succedaneum, and a prop To our infirmity.

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
Glory
Science
Prop
Truth
Infirmity
Props
Boast
Appears
Absolutes
Absolute

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For all things are less dreadful than they seem.
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In ourselves our safety must be sought. By our own right hand it must be wrought.
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The mysteries that cups of flowers infold And all the gorgeous sights which fairies do behold.
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my brain Worked with a dim and undetermined sense Of unknown modes of being o'er my thoughts There hung a darkness, call it solitude Or blank desertion.
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That best portion of a man's life, his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love.
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Fear is a cloak which old men huddle about their love, as if to keep it warm.
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The wind, a sightless laborer, whistles at his task.
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I listened, motionless and still And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.
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Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.
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A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
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The common growth of Mother Earth Suffices me,-her tears, her mirth, Her humblest mirth and tears.
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Rest and be thankful.
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He loves not well whose love is bold! I would not have thee come too nigh. The sun's gold would not seem pure gold Unless the sun were in the sky: To take him thence and chain him near Would make his beauty disappear. William Winter, Love's Queen. The unconquerable pang of despised love.
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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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And when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet whence he blew Soul-animating strains,-alas! too few.
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But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. Not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come.
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Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet
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Give all thou canst high Heaven rejects the lore of nicely-caluculated less or more.
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Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.
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