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Two voices are there one is of the sea, One of the mountains: each a mighty Voice.

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
Voice
Two
Mighty
Mountains
Voices
Sea
Mountain

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I look for ghosts but none will force Their way to me. 'Tis falsely said That there was ever intercourse Between the living and the dead.
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Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion.
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Careless of books, yet having felt the power Of Nature, by the gentle agency Of natural objects, led me on to feel For passions that were not my own, and think (At random and imperfectly indeed) On man, the heart of man, and human life.
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A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
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Books are yours, Within whose silent chambers treasure lies Preserved from age to age more precious far Than that accumulated store of gold And orient gems, which, for a day of need, The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs. These hoards of truth you can unlock at will.
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Great is the glory, for the strife is hard!
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The tears into his eyes were brought, And thanks and praises seemed to run So fast out of his heart, I thought They never would have done. -I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning Alas! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left me mourning.
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But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.
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Monastic brotherhood, upon rock Aerial.
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Sweet Mercy! to the gates of heaven This minstrel lead, his sins forgiven The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour, And memory of Earth's bitter leaven Effaced forever.
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The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.
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The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone
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She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be But she is in her grave, and oh The difference to me!
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Books are the best type of the influence of the past.
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Pleasures newly found are sweet When they lie about our feet.
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Poetry has never brought me in enough money to buy shoestrings.
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Chains tie us down by land and sea And wishes, vain as mine, may be All that is left to comfort thee.
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Knowledge and increase of enduring joy From the great Nature that exists in works Of mighty Poets.
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But how can he expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?
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Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none / Look up a second time, and, one by one, / You mark them twinkling out with silvery light, / And wonder how they could elude the sight!
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