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One solace yet remains for us who came Into this world in days when story lacked Severe research, that in our hearts we know How, for exciting youth's heroic flame, Assent is power, belief the soul of fact.

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
World
Belief
Flames
Story
Hearts
Fact
Exciting
Assent
Facts
Remains
Lacked
Stories
Research
Solace
Power
Youth
Flame
Soul
Days
Severe
Heart
Came
Heroic

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Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill The Ploughboy is whooping — anon — anon! There's joy in the mountains: There's life in the fountains Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing The rain is over and gone.
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The child is father of the man.
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I am already kindly disposed towards you. My friendship it is not in my power to give: this is a gift which no man can make, it is not in our own power: a sound and healthy friendship is the growth of time and circumstance, it will spring up and thrive like a wildflower when these favour, and when they do not, it is in vain to look for it.
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He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.
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And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.
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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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Wisdom and spirit of the Universe!
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And now I see with eye serene, The very pulse of the machine. A being breathing thoughtful breaths, A traveler between life and death.
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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. Enough of Science and of Art Close up these barren leaves Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives.
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'Tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes!
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With little here to do or see Of things that in the great world be, Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee For thou art worthy, Thou unassuming commonplace Of Nature, with that homely face, And yet with something of a grace Which love makes for thee!
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A genial hearth, a hospitable board, and a refined rusticity.
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The child is the father of man.
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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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Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind--But how could I forget thee?
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What we have loved Others will love And we will teach them how.
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