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

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Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee! . . . . . . Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart: So didst thou travel on life's common way In cheerful godliness.
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Miss not the occasion by the forelock take that subtle power, the never-halting time.
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From the body of one guilty deed a thousand ghostly fears and haunting thoughts proceed.
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A great poet ought to a certain degree to rectify men's feelings... to render their feelings more sane, pure and permanent, in short, more consonant to Nature.
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Let Nature be your teacher
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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.
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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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Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
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How does the Meadow flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free down to its root, and in that freedom bold.
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And when the stream Which overflowed the soul was passed away, A consciousness remained that it had left Deposited upon the silent shore Of memory images and precious thoughts That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed.
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The fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.
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Action is transitory, a step, a blow, The motion of a muscle, this way or that, 'Tis done--And in the after-vacancy, We wonder at ourselves, like men betrayed.
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Take the sweet poetry of life away, and what remains behind?
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Departing summer hath assumed An aspect tenderly illumed, The gentlest look of spring That calls from yonder leafy shade Unfaded, yet prepared to fade, A timely carolling.
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Minds that have nothing to confer Find little to perceive.
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Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence.
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Faith is a passionate intuition.
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Let the moon shine on the in thy solitary walk and let the misty mountain-winds be free to blow against thee.
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