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Yon foaming flood seems motionless as iceIts dizzy turbulence eludes the eye,Frozen by distance.
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
Dizzy
Frozen
Flood
Ice
Foaming
Distance
Eludes
Eye
Motionless
Seems
Turbulence
Elude
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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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Oft on the dappled turf at ease I sit, and play with similes, Loose type of things through all degrees.
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The daisy, by the shadow that it casts, Protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun.
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Every great and original writer, in proportion as he is great and original, must himself create the taste by which he is to be relished.
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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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Be mild, and cleave to gentle things, thy glory and thy happiness be there.
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Those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings Blank misgivings of a Creature Moving about in worlds not realised, High instincts before which our mortal Nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised
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The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an angel's wing.
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Spires whose silent finger points to heaven.
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A brotherhood of venerable trees.
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Knowledge and increase of enduring joy From the great Nature that exists in works Of mighty Poets.
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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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The earth was all before me. With a heart Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty, I look about and should the chosen guide Be nothing better than a wandering cloud, I cannot miss my way.
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Free as a bird to settle where I will.
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Departing summer hath assumed An aspect tenderly illumed, The gentlest look of spring That calls from yonder leafy shade Unfaded, yet prepared to fade, A timely carolling.
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Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And, even with something of a mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster child, her inmate man, Forget the glories he hath known And that imperial palace whence he came.
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