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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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Oft on the dappled turf at ease I sit, and play with similes, Loose type of things through all degrees.
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How fast has brother followed brother, From sunshine to the sunless land!
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Either still I find Some imperfection in the chosen theme, Or see of absolute accomplishment Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself, That I recoil and droop, and seek repose In listlessness from vain perplexity, Unprofitably travelling towards the grave.
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The light that never was, on sea or land The consecration, and the Poet's dream.
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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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Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And, even with something of a mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster child, her inmate man, Forget the glories he hath known And that imperial palace whence he came.
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The Poet, gentle creature as he is, Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times His fits when he is neither sick nor well, Though no distress be near him but his own Unmanageable thoughts.
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Society became my glittering bride, And airy hopes my children.
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I, methought, while the sweet breath of heaven Was blowing on my body, felt within A correspondent breeze, that gently moved With quickening virtue, but is now become A tempest, a redundant energy, Vexing its own creation.
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The fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.
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Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.
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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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A mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone.
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The best of what we do and are, Just God, forgive!
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Spade! Thou art a tool of honor in my hands. I press thee, through a yielding soil, with pride.
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The Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose.
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The vision and the faculty divine Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse.
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May books and nature be their early joy!
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The silence that is in the starry sky, / The sleep that is among the lonely hills.
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Laying out grounds... may be considered as a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.... it is to assist Nature in moving the affections... the affections of those who have the deepest perception of the beauty of Nature.
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