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True dignity abides with him alone Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, Can still suspect, and still revere himself, In lowliness of heart.

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
Alone
Abides
Hours
Revere
True
Suspect
Thought
Suspects
Stills
Inward
Still
Hour
Heart
Dignity
Silent
Lowliness

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Bright was the summer's noon when quickening steps Followed each other till a dreary moor Was crossed, a bare ridge clomb, upon whose top Standing alone, as from a rampart's edge, I overlooked the bed of Windermere, Like a vast river, stretching in the sun.
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The human mind is capable of excitement without the application of gross and violent stimulants and he must have a very faint perception of its beauty and dignity who does not know this.
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Now when the primrose makes a splendid show, And lilies face the March-winds in full blow, And humbler growths as moved with one desire Put on, to welcome spring, their best attire, Poor Robin is yet flowerless but how gay With his red stalks upon this sunny day!
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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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Society became my glittering bride, And airy hopes my children.
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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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Strongest minds are often those whom the noisy world hears least.
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And you must love him, ere to you He will seem worthy of your love.
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I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, wherever nature led.
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Ah, what a warning for a thoughtless man, Could field or grove, could any spot of earth, Show to his eye an image of the pangs Which it hath witnessed,-render back an echo Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod!
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The stars of midnight shall be dear To her and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face.
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[Mathematics] is an independent world created out of pure intelligence.
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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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We Poets in our youth begin in gladness But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
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I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough, along the mountain-side. By our own spirits we are deified We Poets in our youth begin in gladness, But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
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Wrongs unredressed, or insults unavenged.
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