Quote

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.

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
Living
Apparitions
Ever
Falsely
Look
Ghosts
Looks
Intercourse
Way
Ghost
None
Dead
Force

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The sunshine is a glorious birth But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.
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The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone
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Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
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Oft in my way have I stood still, though but a casual passenger, so much I felt the awfulness of life.
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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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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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I have felt a presence that disturbs me with the joy of elevated thoughts a sense sublime of something far more deeply interfused, whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, and the round ocean, and the living air, and the blue sky, and in the mind of man.
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In heaven above, And earth below, they best can serve true gladness Who meet most feelingly the calls of sadness.
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Society became my glittering bride, And airy hopes my children.
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The intellectual power, through words and things, Went sounding on a dim and perilous way!
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Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters.
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Science appears but what in truth she is, Not as our glory and our absolute boast, But as a succedaneum, and a prop To our infirmity.
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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 monumental pomp of age Was with this goodly personage A stature undepressed in size, Unbent, which rather seemed to rise In open victory o'er the weight Of seventy years, to loftier height.
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For all things are less dreadful than they seem.
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The ocean is a mighty harmonist.
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A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light
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Books are the best type of the influence of the past.
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These hoards of wealth you can unlock at will.
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