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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
Home
Trailing
Come
Eulogy
Infancy
Clouds
Glory
Lies
Heaven
Lying

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What are fears but voices airy? Whispering harm where harm is not. And deluding the unwary Till the fatal bolt is shot!
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While all the future, for thy purer soul, With sober certainties of love is blest.
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And when the stream Which overflowed the soul was passed away, A consciousness remained that it had left Deposited upon the silent shore Of memory images and precious thoughts That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed.
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But to a higher mark than song can reach, Rose this pure eloquence.
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Truths that wake To perish never
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Be mild, and cleave to gentle things, thy glory and thy happiness be there.
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A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by One after one the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky - I've thought of all by turns, and still I lie Sleepless.
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Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence.
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A simple child. That lightly draws its breath. And feels its life in every limb. What should it know of death?
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We live by admiration, hope and love.
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That though the radiance which was once so bright be now forever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, glory in the flower. We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
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The world is too much with us late and soon, getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours.
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I should dread to disfigure the beautiful ideal of the memories of illustrious persons with incongruous features, and to sully the imaginative purity of classical works with gross and trivial recollections.
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Imagination is the means of deep insight and sympathy, the power to conceive and express images removed from normal objective reality.
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And I am happy when I sing.
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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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The stars of midnight shall be dear To her and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face.
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The wealthiest man among us is the best
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We must be free or die, who speak the tongue That Shakespeare spake the faith and morals hold Which Milton held.
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One of those heavenly days that cannot die.
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