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

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As thou these ashes, little brook, wilt bear Into the Avon, Avon to the tide Of Severn, Severn to the narrow seas, Into main ocean they, this deed accursed An emblem yields to friends and enemies How the bold teacher's doctrine, sanctified By truth, shall spread, throughout the world dispersed.
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I am already kindly disposed towards you. My friendship it is not in my power to give: this is a gift which no man can make, it is not in our own power: a sound and healthy friendship is the growth of time and circumstance, it will spring up and thrive like a wildflower when these favour, and when they do not, it is in vain to look for it.
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All men feel a habitual gratitude, and something of an honorable bigotry, for the objects which have long continued to please them.
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There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream.
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Earth helped him with the cry of blood.
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Sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart.
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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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On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, Musing is solitude
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Tis said, fantastic ocean doth enfold The likeness of whate'er on land is seen.
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A mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone.
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Wisdom and Spirit of the universe! Thou soul, that art the eternity of thought, And giv'st to forms and images a breath And everlasting motion.
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Nor less I deem that there are Powers Which of themselves our minds impress That we can feed this mind of ours In a wise passiveness
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From the body of one guilty deed a thousand ghostly fears and haunting thoughts proceed.
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Love betters what is best
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And he is oft the wisest manWho is not wise at all.
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For mightier far Than strength of nerve or sinew, or the sway Of magic potent over sun and star, Is love, though oft to agony distrest, And though his favourite be feeble woman's breast.
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As high as we have mounted in delight, In our dejection do we sink as low.
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May books and nature be their early joy!
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But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.
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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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