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In truth the prison, unto which we doom Ourselves, no prison is.

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
Doom
Unto
Prison
Truth

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Tis not in battles that from youth we train The Governor who must be wise and good, And temper with the sternness of the brain Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood.
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Then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils.
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The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone
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Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns.
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. Not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come.
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A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free.
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Therefore am I still a lover of the meadows and the woods, and mountains and of all that we behold from this green earth.
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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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Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
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Stern daughter of the voice of God! O Duty! if that name thou love Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring and reprove.
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But who would force the soul tilts with a straw Against a champion cased in adamant
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Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay, And could not win thee, Sleep, by any stealth: So do not let me wear to-night away. Without thee what is all the morning's wealth? Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
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Spade! Thou art a tool of honor in my hands. I press thee, through a yielding soil, with pride.
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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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We must be free or die, who speak the tongue That Shakespeare spake the faith and morals hold Which Milton held.
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A genial hearth, a hospitable board, and a refined rusticity.
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For nature then to me was all in all.
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Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.
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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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And when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet whence he blew Soul-animating strains,-alas! too few.
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