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If thou art beautiful, and youth and thought endue thee with all truth-be strong--be worthy of the grace of God.

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
Grace
Beauty
Strong
Art
Beautiful
Thou
Thought
Thee
Truth
Worthy
Youth

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Alas! how little can a moment show Of an eye where feeling plays In ten thousand dewy rays: A face o'er which a thousand shadows go!
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Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind--But how could I forget thee?
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The silence that is in the starry sky, / The sleep that is among the lonely hills.
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Plain living and high thinking are no more. The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone our peace, our fearful innocence, And pure religion breathing household laws.
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We Poets in our youth begin in gladness But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
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Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.
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... and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
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Poetry is emotion recollected in tranquillity.
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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.
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Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And, even with something of a mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster child, her inmate man, Forget the glories he hath known And that imperial palace whence he came.
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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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Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.
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On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, Musing is solitude
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Everything is tedious when one does not read with the feeling of the Author.
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One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave.
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As high as we have mounted in delight, In our dejection do we sink as low.
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Shalt show us how divine a thing A woman may be made.
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I have felt a presence that disturbs me with the joy of elevated thoughts a sense sublime of something far more deeply interfused, whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, and the round ocean, and the living air, and the blue sky, and in the mind of man.
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The wind, a sightless laborer, whistles at his task.
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Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.
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