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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
Truth
Doom
Unto
Prison

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To the solid ground Of nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye.
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Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry and these we adore Plain living and high thinking are no more.
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Write to me frequently & the longest letters possible never mind whether you have facts or no to communicate fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
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And now I see with eye serene, The very pulse of the machine. A being breathing thoughtful breaths, A traveler between life and death.
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Recognizes ever and anon The breeze of Nature stirring in his soul.
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To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
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Delivered from the galling yoke of time.
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Serene will be our days, and bright and happy will our nature be, when love is an unerring light, and joy its own security.
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Sweet childish days, that were as long, As twenty days are now.
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Laying out grounds may be considered a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.
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The mysteries that cups of flowers infold And all the gorgeous sights which fairies do behold.
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Two voices are there one is of the sea, One of the mountains: each a mighty Voice.
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Bright flower! whose home is everywhere Bold in maternal nature's care And all the long year through the heir Of joy or sorrow, Methinks that there abides in thee Some concord with humanity, Given to no other flower I see The forest through.
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Sweet Mercy! to the gates of heaven This minstrel lead, his sins forgiven The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour, And memory of Earth's bitter leaven Effaced forever.
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There's something in a flying horse, There's something in a huge balloon.
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Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares!- The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays.
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But hushed be every thought that springs From out the bitterness of things.
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For oft, when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood they flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude
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A deep distress has humanised my soul.
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Memories... images and precious thoughts that shall not die and cannot be destroyed.
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