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But He is risen, a later star of dawn.

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
Risen
Dawn
Star
Later
Stars

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Sweet childish days, that were as long, As twenty days are now.
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There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream.
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The mysteries that cups of flowers infold And all the gorgeous sights which fairies do behold.
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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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A Briton even in love should be A subject, not a slave!
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Laying out grounds... may be considered as a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.... it is to assist Nature in moving the affections... the affections of those who have the deepest perception of the beauty of Nature.
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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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For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity.
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The light that never was, on sea or land The consecration, and the Poet's dream.
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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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Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity.
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A deep distress has humanised my soul.
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Take the sweet poetry of life away, and what remains behind?
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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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With an eye made quiet by the power of harmony, and the deep power of joy, we see into the life of things.
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Behold the Child among his new-born blisses A six years' Darling of a pigmy size! See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly-learned art.
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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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The world is too much with us late and soon, getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours.
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Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns.
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But who is innocent? By grace divine, Not otherwise,O Nature! we are thine.
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