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But trailing clouds of glory do we come, From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy!.

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
Lying
Home
Trailing
Come
Eulogy
Infancy
Clouds
Glory
Lies
Heaven

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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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She gave me eyes, she gave me ears And humble cares, and delicate fears A heart, the fountain of sweet tears And love and thought and joy.
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O Reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle Reader! you would find A tale in everything.
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Those old credulities, to Nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock Of history?
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We murder to dissect.
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Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence.
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Dreams, books, are each a world.
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The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an angel's wing.
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For by superior energies more strict affiance in each other faith more firm in their unhallowed principles, the bad have fairly earned a victory over the weak, the vacillating, inconsistent good.
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Wild is the music of autumnal winds Amongst the faded woods.
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Let the moon shine on the in thy solitary walk and let the misty mountain-winds be free to blow against thee.
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