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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
Art
Beautiful
Thou
Thought
Thee
Truth
Worthy
Youth
Grace
Beauty
Strong

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What is pride? A rocket that emulates the stars.
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While all the future, for thy purer soul, With sober certainties of love is blest.
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And through the heat of conflict keeps the law In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw.
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Sweet childish days, that were as long, As twenty days are now.
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Meek Nature's evening comment on the shows That for oblivion take their daily birth From all the fuming vanities of earth.
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Those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings Blank misgivings of a Creature Moving about in worlds not realised, High instincts before which our mortal Nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised
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There's something in a flying horse, There's something in a huge balloon.
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A mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone.
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The child is father of the man: And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
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How does the Meadow flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free down to its root, and in that freedom bold.
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His love was like the liberal air, embracing all, to cheer and bless.
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Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.
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But how can he expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?
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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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Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity.
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He who feels contempt for any living thing hath faculties that he hath never used, and thought with him is in its infancy.
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Miss not the occasion by the forelock take that subtle power, the never-halting time.
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Plain living and high thinking are no more.
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Books are the best type of the influence of the past.
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True dignity abides with him alone Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, Can still suspect, and still revere himself, In lowliness of heart.
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