Quote

The moving accident is not my trade To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.

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
Simple
Arts
Moving
Delight
Song
Hearts
Art
Summer
Freeze
Heart
Trade
Pipe
Thinking
Ready
Accident
Blood
Shade
Alone
Accidents

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Earth helped him with the cry of blood.
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His high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright.
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I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough, along the mountain-side. By our own spirits we are deified We Poets in our youth begin in gladness, But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
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And the most difficult of tasks to keep Heights which the soul is competent to gain.
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Like an army defeated the snow hath retreated.
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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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But who is innocent? By grace divine, Not otherwise,O Nature! we are thine.
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The earth was all before me. With a heart Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty, I look about and should the chosen guide Be nothing better than a wandering cloud, I cannot miss my way.
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He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.
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But who would force the soul tilts with a straw Against a champion cased in adamant
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Sweet Mercy! to the gates of heaven This minstrel lead, his sins forgiven The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour, And memory of Earth's bitter leaven Effaced forever.
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From the body of one guilty deed a thousand ghostly fears and haunting thoughts proceed.
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Wrongs unredressed, or insults unavenged.
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Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay, And could not win thee, Sleep, by any stealth: So do not let me wear to-night away. Without thee what is all the morning's wealth? Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
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The primal duties shine aloft, like stars The charities that soothe, and heal, and bless, Are scattered at the feet of Man, like flowers.
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Miss not the occasion by the forelock take that subtle power, the never-halting time.
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Rest and be thankful.
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May books and nature be their early joy!
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Happier of happy though I be, like them I cannot take possession of the sky, mount with a thoughtless impulse, and wheel there, one of a mighty multitude whose way and motion is a harmony and dance magnificent.
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