Quote

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And, even with something of a mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster child, her inmate man, Forget the glories he hath known And that imperial palace whence he came.

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
Mind
Known
Nurse
Palace
Something
Forget
Pleasures
Foster
Inmate
Make
Natural
Hath
Lap
Yearnings
Men
Mother
Aim
Palaces
Inmates
Earth
Glory
Fills
Glories
Children
Came
Unworthy
Homely
Even
Pleasure
Doth
Imperial
Kind
Child
Yearning
Whence

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Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none / Look up a second time, and, one by one, / You mark them twinkling out with silvery light, / And wonder how they could elude the sight!
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One with more of soul in his face than words on his tongue.
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A youth to whom was given So much of earth, so much of heaven.
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While all the future, for thy purer soul, With sober certainties of love is blest.
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These hoards of wealth you can unlock at will.
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I've watched you now a full half-hour Self-poised upon that yellow flower And, little Butterfly! Indeed I know not if you sleep or feed. How motionless! - not frozen seas More motionless! and then What joy awaits you, when the breeze Hath found you out among the trees, And calls you forth again!
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A few strong instincts and a few plain rules.
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The child is father of the man: And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
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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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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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Minds that have nothing to confer Find little to perceive.
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In ourselves our safety must be sought. By our own right hand it must be wrought.
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The earth was all before me. With a heart Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty, I look about and should the chosen guide Be nothing better than a wandering cloud, I cannot miss my way.
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Bright was the summer's noon when quickening steps Followed each other till a dreary moor Was crossed, a bare ridge clomb, upon whose top Standing alone, as from a rampart's edge, I overlooked the bed of Windermere, Like a vast river, stretching in the sun.
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Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn
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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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Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters.
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She was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight, A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament Her eyes as stars of twilight fair, Like twilights too her dusky hair, But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn.
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