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Great is the glory, for the strife is hard!

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
Strife
Glory
Hard
Great

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The intellectual power, through words and things, Went sounding on a dim and perilous way!
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He loves not well whose love is bold! I would not have thee come too nigh. The sun's gold would not seem pure gold Unless the sun were in the sky: To take him thence and chain him near Would make his beauty disappear. William Winter, Love's Queen. The unconquerable pang of despised love.
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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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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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Life is divided into three terms - that which was, which is, and which will be. Let us learn from the past to profit by the present, and from the present, to live better in the future.
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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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Men who can hear the Decalogue, and feel To self-reproach.
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But hushed be every thought that springs From out the bitterness of things.
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The earth was all before me. With a heart Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty, I look about and should the chosen guide Be nothing better than a wandering cloud, I cannot miss my way.
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Rest and be thankful.
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Who, doomed to go in company with Pain And Fear and Bloodshed,-miserable train!- Turns his necessity to glorious gain.
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Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray.
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With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars.
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How many undervalue the power of simplicity ! But it is the real key to the heart.
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Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher.
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Great God! I'd rather be a Pagan.
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The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.
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The softest breeze to fairest flowers gives birth: Think not that Prudence dwells in dark abodes, She scans the future with the eye of gods.
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Nor will I then thy modest grace forget, Chaste Snow-drop, venturous harbinger of Spring, And pensive monitor of fleeting years!
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In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard seat And birds and flowers once more to greet. . . .
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