Quote

I, methought, while the sweet breath of heaven Was blowing on my body, felt within A correspondent breeze, that gently moved With quickening virtue, but is now become A tempest, a redundant energy, Vexing its own creation.

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
Within
Gently
Heaven
Breeze
Energy
Breath
Vexing
Felt
Breaths
Correspondent
Become
Moved
Quickening
Body
Sweet
Redundant
Creation
Tempest
Virtue
Blowing

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On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, Musing in solitude, I oft perceive Fair trains of images before me rise, Accompanied by feelings of delight Pure, or with no unpleasing sadness mixed.
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Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray.
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My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began So is it now I am a man So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! The Child is father of the Man I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
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In spite of difference of soil and climate, of language and manners, of laws and customs-in spite of things silently gone out of mind, and things violently destroyed, the Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society, as it is spread over the whole earth, and over all time.
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Let beeves and home-bred kine partake The sweets of Burn-mill meadow The swan on still St. Mary's Lake Float double, swan and shadow!
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Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade Of that which once was great is passed away.
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In years that bring the philosophic mind.
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And through the heat of conflict keeps the law In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw.
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Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.
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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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Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close upon the growing boy.
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One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.
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A famous man is Robin Hood, The English ballad-singer's joy.
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A genial hearth, a hospitable board, and a refined rusticity.
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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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Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind--But how could I forget thee?
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What is good for a bootless bene? With these dark words begins my tale And their meaning is, Whence can comfort spring When prayer is of no avail?
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The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink I heard a voice it said Drink, pretty creature, drink'
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