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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.

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
Eternity
Wisdom
Everlasting
Universe
Motion
Spirit
Images
Art
Breath
Form
Breaths
Thought
Thou
Soul
Forms

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A cheerful life is what the Muses love. A soaring spirit is their prime delight.
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But an old age serene and bright, and lovely as a Lapland night, shall lead thee to thy grave.
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Whether we be young or old,Our destiny, our being's heart and home,Is with infinitude, and only thereWith hope it is, hope that can never die,Effort and expectation, and desire,And something evermore about to be.
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Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind--But how could I forget thee?
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Wrongs unredressed, or insults unavenged.
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Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.
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Careless of books, yet having felt the power Of Nature, by the gentle agency Of natural objects, led me on to feel For passions that were not my own, and think (At random and imperfectly indeed) On man, the heart of man, and human life.
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Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.
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Memories... images and precious thoughts that shall not die and cannot be destroyed.
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He who feels contempt for any living thing hath faculties that he hath never used, and thought with him is in its infancy.
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Laying out grounds may be considered a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.
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That though the radiance which was once so bright be now forever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, glory in the flower. We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
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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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Those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings Blank misgivings of a Creature Moving about in worlds not realised, High instincts before which our mortal Nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised
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In years that bring the philosophic mind.
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It is the 1st mild day of March. Each minute sweeter than before... there is a blessing in the air.
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Like thoughts whose very sweetness yielded proof that they were born for immortality.
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And when the stream Which overflowed the soul was passed away, A consciousness remained that it had left Deposited upon the silent shore Of memory images and precious thoughts That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed.
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Those old credulities, to Nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock Of history?
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Mark the babe not long accustomed to this breathing world One that hath barely learned to shape a smile, though yet irrational of soul, to grasp with tiny finger - to let fall a tear And, as the heavy cloud of sleep dissolves, To stretch his limbs, becoming, as might seem. The outward functions of intelligent man.
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