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Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters.
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
Needs
Thou
Thee
Hour
England
Hours
Milton
Water
Stagnant
Living
Waters
Need
Hath
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That kill the bloom before its time, And blanch, without the owner's crime, The most resplendent hair.
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Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
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Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour Have passed away less happy than the one That by the unwilling ploughshare died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love.
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Chains tie us down by land and sea And wishes, vain as mine, may be All that is left to comfort thee.
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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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Memories... images and precious thoughts that shall not die and cannot be destroyed.
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Hearing often-times the still, sad music of humanity, nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power to chasten and subdue.
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Stern daughter of the voice of God! O Duty! if that name thou love Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring and reprove.
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Knowing that Nature never did betray the heart that loved her 'tis her privilege, through all the years of this our life, to lead from joy to joy.
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The wealthiest man among us is the best
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Every gift of noble origin Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath.
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Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, We feel that we are greater than we know.
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Sweet is the lore which Nature brings Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: We murder to dissect.
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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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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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Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.
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Take the sweet poetry of life away, and what remains behind?
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A power is passing from the earth.
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Meek Nature's evening comment on the shows That for oblivion take their daily birth From all the fuming vanities of earth.
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On a fair prospect some have looked, And felt, as I have heard them say, As if the moving time had been A thing as steadfast as the scene On which they gazed themselves away.
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