Quote

Either still I find Some imperfection in the chosen theme, Or see of absolute accomplishment Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself, That I recoil and droop, and seek repose In listlessness from vain perplexity, Unprofitably travelling towards the grave.

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
Seek
Graves
Droop
Either
Theme
Recoil
Stills
Wanting
Perplexity
Still
Vain
Travelling
Find
Absolutes
Repose
Much
Absolute
Imperfection
Chosen
Grave
Towards
Accomplishment
Listlessness

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What are fears but voices airy? Whispering harm where harm is not. And deluding the unwary Till the fatal bolt is shot!
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Huge and mighty forms that do not live like living men, moved slowly through the mind by day and were trouble to my dreams.
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But how can he expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?
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Wisdom married to immortal verse.
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Minds that have nothing to confer Find little to perceive.
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And mighty poets in their misery dead.
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But trailing clouds of glory do we come, From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy!.
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As high as we have mounted in delight, In our dejection do we sink as low.
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And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore.
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Before us lay a painful road, And guidance have I sought in duteous love From Wisdom's heavenly Father. Hence hath flowed Patience, with trust that, whatsoe'er the way Each takes in this high matter, all may move Cheered with the prospect of a brighter day.
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Imagination, which in truth Is but another name for absolute power And clearest insight, amplitude of mind, And reason, in her most exalted mood.
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Meek Walton's heavenly memory.
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Stay, little cheerful Robin! stay, And at my casement sing, Though it should prove a farewell lay And this our parting spring. * * * * * Then, little Bird, this boon confer, Come, and my requiem sing, Nor fail to be the harbinger Of everlasting spring.
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For all things are less dreadful than they seem.
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Truth takes no account of centuries.
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Bright gem instinct with music, vocal spark.
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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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Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there In happier beauty more pellucid streams, An ampler ether, a diviner air, And fields invested with purpureal gleams.
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Since thy return, through days and weeks Of hope that grew by stealth, How many wan and faded cheeks Have kindled into health! The Old, by thee revived, have said, 'Another year is ours' And wayworn Wanderers, poorly fed, Have smiled upon thy flowers.
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For youthful faults ripe virtues shall atone.
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