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Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?

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
Sky
Nest
Ground
Pilgrim
Upon
Nests
Minstrel
Eye
Aspire
Minstrels
Earth
Despise
Dewy
Care
Cares
Abound
Heart
Thou
Dost
Wings
Ethereal

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Fear is a cloak which old men huddle about their love, as if to keep it warm.
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Prompt to move but firm to wait - knowing things rashly sought are rarely found.
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I travelled among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea Nor England! did I know till then What love I bore to thee.
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The ocean is a mighty harmonist.
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I've watched you now a full half-hour Self-poised upon that yellow flower And, little Butterfly! Indeed I know not if you sleep or feed. How motionless! - not frozen seas More motionless! and then What joy awaits you, when the breeze Hath found you out among the trees, And calls you forth again!
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Books are yours, Within whose silent chambers treasure lies Preserved from age to age more precious far Than that accumulated store of gold And orient gems, which, for a day of need, The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs. These hoards of truth you can unlock at will.
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For by superior energies more strict affiance in each other faith more firm in their unhallowed principles, the bad have fairly earned a victory over the weak, the vacillating, inconsistent good.
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The sightless Milton, with his hair Around his placid temples curled And Shakespeare at his side,-a freight, If clay could think and mind were weight, For him who bore the world!
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O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive!
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Since every mortal power of Coleridge Was frozen at its marvellous source, The rapt one, of the godlike forehead, The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth: And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, Has vanished from his lonely hearth.
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A youth to whom was given So much of earth, so much of heaven.
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We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted.
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Truth takes no account of centuries.
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