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I should dread to disfigure the beautiful ideal of the memories of illustrious persons with incongruous features, and to sully the imaginative purity of classical works with gross and trivial recollections.

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
Memories
Gross
Disfigure
Beautiful
Classical
Sully
Persons
Dread
Incongruous
Purity
Recollections
Features
Illustrious
Ideal
Recollection
Ideals
Trivial
Works
Imaginative

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On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, Musing in solitude, I oft perceive Fair trains of images before me rise, Accompanied by feelings of delight Pure, or with no unpleasing sadness mixed.
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Lady of the Mere, Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.
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How many undervalue the power of simplicity ! But it is the real key to the heart.
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And the most difficult of tasks to keep Heights which the soul is competent to gain.
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A youth to whom was given So much of earth, so much of heaven.
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Sweet childish days, that were as long, As twenty days are now.
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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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Babylon, Learned and wise, hath perished utterly, Nor leaves her speech one word to aid the sigh That would lament her.
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And I am happy when I sing.
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poetry is the breath and finer spirit of knowledge
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When men change swords for ledgers, and desert The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed I had, my Country--am I to be blamed?
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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 harvest of a quiet eye, That broods and sleeps on his own heart.
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For mightier far Than strength of nerve or sinew, or the sway Of magic potent over sun and star, Is love, though oft to agony distrest, And though his favourite be feeble woman's breast.
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The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone
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He spake of love, such love as spirits feel In worlds whose course is equable and pure No fears to beat away, no strife to heal,- The past unsighed for, and the future sure.
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... and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
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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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Sad fancies do we then affect, In luxury of disrespect To our own prodigal excess Of too familiar happiness.
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'T is hers to pluck the amaranthine flower Of faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower, And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.
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