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A great poet ought to a certain degree to rectify men's feelings... to render their feelings more sane, pure and permanent, in short, more consonant to Nature.

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
Feelings
Sane
Nature
Permanent
Certain
Degree
Great
Degrees
Men
Poet
Consonant
Short
Consonants
Pure
Rectify
Ought
Render

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Oh, blank confusion! true epitome Of what the mighty City is herself, To thousands upon thousands of her sons, Living amid the same perpetual whirl Of trivial objects, melted and reduced To one identity.
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Two voices are there one is of the sea, One of the mountains: each a mighty Voice.
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Books! tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it.
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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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poetry is the breath and finer spirit of knowledge
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But who is innocent? By grace divine, Not otherwise,O Nature! we are thine.
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We have within ourselves Enough to fill the present day with joy, And overspread the future years with hope.
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To be young was very heaven!
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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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Truths that wake To perish never
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Miss not the occasion by the forelock take that subtle power, the never-halting time.
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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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Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee! . . . . . . Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart: So didst thou travel on life's common way In cheerful godliness.
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While all the future, for thy purer soul, With sober certainties of love is blest.
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For nature then to me was all in all.
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Poetry has never brought me in enough money to buy shoestrings.
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Great is the glory, for the strife is hard!
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In spite of difference of soil and climate, of language and manners, of laws and customs-in spite of things silently gone out of mind, and things violently destroyed, the Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society, as it is spread over the whole earth, and over all time.
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Alas! how little can a moment show Of an eye where feeling plays In ten thousand dewy rays: A face o'er which a thousand shadows go!
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But an old age serene and bright, and lovely as a Lapland night, shall lead thee to thy grave.
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