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

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The child is father of the man: And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
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Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares!- The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays.
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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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Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.
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Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.
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In modern business it is not the crook who is to be feared most, it is the honest man who doesn't know what he is doing.
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'T is hers to pluck the amaranthine flower Of faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower, And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.
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As generations come and go, Their arts, their customs, ebb and flow Fate, fortune, sweep strong powers away, And feeble, of themselves, decay.
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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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Tis said, fantastic ocean doth enfold The likeness of whate'er on land is seen.
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That kill the bloom before its time, And blanch, without the owner's crime, The most resplendent hair.
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We bow our heads before Thee, and we laud, And magnify thy name Almighty God! But man is thy most awful instrument, In working out a pure intent.
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The memory of the just survives in Heaven.
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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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The primal duties shine aloft, like stars The charities that soothe, and heal, and bless, Are scattered at the feet of Man, like flowers.
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He spake of love, such love as spirits feel In worlds whose course is equable and pure No fears to beat away, no strife to heal,- The past unsighed for, and the future sure.
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That best portion of a man's life, his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love.
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Monastic brotherhood, upon rock Aerial.
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... and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
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In years that bring the philosophic mind.
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