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Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep/ Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind.

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
Best
Blindness
Heritage
Philosopher
Thou
Blind
Among
Eye
Keep
Dost

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But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.
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Since thy return, through days and weeks Of hope that grew by stealth, How many wan and faded cheeks Have kindled into health! The Old, by thee revived, have said, 'Another year is ours' And wayworn Wanderers, poorly fed, Have smiled upon thy flowers.
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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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Nor less I deem that there are Powers Which of themselves our minds impress That we can feed this mind of ours In a wise passiveness
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Not Chaos, not the darkest pit of lowest Erebus, nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out by help of dreams - can breed such fear and awe as fall upon us often when we look into our Minds, into the Mind of Man.
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Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.
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A light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove.
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We live by admiration, hope and love.
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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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Minds that have nothing to confer Find little to perceive.
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Lady of the Mere, Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.
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The streams with softest sound are flowing, The grass you almost hear it growing, You hear it now, if e'er you can.
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His high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright.
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Enough, if something from our hands have power To live, and act, and serve the future hour And if, as toward the silent tomb we go, Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, We feel that we are greater than we know.
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Be mild, and cleave to gentle things, thy glory and thy happiness be there.
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Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there In happier beauty more pellucid streams, An ampler ether, a diviner air, And fields invested with purpureal gleams.
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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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While all the future, for thy purer soul, With sober certainties of love is blest.
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Huge and mighty forms that do not live like living men, moved slowly through the mind by day and were trouble to my dreams.
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But who would force the soul tilts with a straw Against a champion cased in adamant
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