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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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Poetry is emotion recollected in tranquillity.
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Miss not the occasion by the forelock take that subtle power, the never-halting time.
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Thou unassuming common-place of Nature, with that homely face.
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And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.
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In truth the prison, unto which we doom Ourselves, no prison is.
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True beauty dwells in deep retreats, Whose veil is unremoved Till heart with heart in concord beats, And the lover is beloved.
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Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither.
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When from our better selves we have too long been parted by the hurrying world, and droop. Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, how gracious, how benign is solitude.
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O Reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle Reader! you would find A tale in everything.
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The world is too much with us late and soon, getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours.
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A Briton even in love should be A subject, not a slave!
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Then blame not those who, by the mightiest lever Known to the moral world, Imagination.
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He loves not well whose love is bold! I would not have thee come too nigh. The sun's gold would not seem pure gold Unless the sun were in the sky: To take him thence and chain him near Would make his beauty disappear. William Winter, Love's Queen. The unconquerable pang of despised love.
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My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard.
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In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease and, of its joy secure, The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, And on the vacant air.
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By happy chance we saw A twofold image: on a grassy bank A snow-white ram, and in the crystal flood Another and the same!
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Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room And hermits are contented with their cells.
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Give unto me, made lowly wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice The confidence of reason give, And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live!
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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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Oft on the dappled turf at ease I sit, and play with similes, Loose type of things through all degrees.
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