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The Eagle, he was lord above

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
Eagle
Eagles
Lord

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The flower that smells the sweetest is shy and lowly.
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The Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society.
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There is a luxury in self-dispraise And inward self-disparagement affords To meditative spleen a grateful feast.
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The eye— it cannot choose but see we cannot bid the ear be still our bodies feel, where'er they be, against or with our will.
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my brain Worked with a dim and undetermined sense Of unknown modes of being o'er my thoughts There hung a darkness, call it solitude Or blank desertion.
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Wisdom and spirit of the Universe!
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Come grow old with me. The best is yet to be.
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Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?
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Let beeves and home-bred kine partake The sweets of Burn-mill meadow The swan on still St. Mary's Lake Float double, swan and shadow!
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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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Science appears but what in truth she is, Not as our glory and our absolute boast, But as a succedaneum, and a prop To our infirmity.
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What know we of the Blest above but that they sing, and that they love?
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While all the future, for thy purer soul, With sober certainties of love is blest.
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Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain That has been, and may be again.
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. Not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come.
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It is the 1st mild day of March. Each minute sweeter than before... there is a blessing in the air.
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The memory of the just survives in Heaven.
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To the solid ground Of nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye.
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But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.
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We live by admiration, hope and love.
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