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Brothers all In honour, as in one community, Scholars and gentlemen.

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
Scholar
Honour
Brothers
Gentleman
Brother
Community
Scholars
Gentlemen

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What are fears but voices airy? Whispering harm where harm is not. And deluding the unwary Till the fatal bolt is shot!
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But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.
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Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.
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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.
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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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There is a luxury in self-dispraise And inward self-disparagement affords To meditative spleen a grateful feast.
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Books! tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it.
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The mysteries that cups of flowers infold And all the gorgeous sights which fairies do behold.
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She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.
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Wisdom and Spirit of the universe! Thou soul, that art the eternity of thought, And giv'st to forms and images a breath And everlasting motion.
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The intellectual power, through words and things, Went sounding on a dim and perilous way!
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A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays And confident tomorrows.
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The harvest of a quiet eye, That broods and sleeps on his own heart.
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True dignity abides with him alone Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, Can still suspect, and still revere himself, In lowliness of heart.
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We bow our heads before Thee, and we laud, And magnify thy name Almighty God! But man is thy most awful instrument, In working out a pure intent.
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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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I'm not talking about a show me other walls of this thing button, I mean a stumble button for wallbase.
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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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A Briton even in love should be A subject, not a slave!
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We must be free or die, who speak the tongue That Shakespeare spake the faith and morals hold Which Milton held.
William Wordsworth