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But to a higher mark than song can reach, Rose this pure eloquence.

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
Eloquence
Rose
Mark
Reach
Pure
Higher
Song

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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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Strongest minds are often those whom the noisy world hears least.
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Great God! I'd rather be a Pagan.
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Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.
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Before us lay a painful road, And guidance have I sought in duteous love From Wisdom's heavenly Father. Hence hath flowed Patience, with trust that, whatsoe'er the way Each takes in this high matter, all may move Cheered with the prospect of a brighter day.
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Choice word and measured phrase above the reach Of ordinary men.
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The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an angel's wing.
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The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration.
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Laying out grounds... may be considered as a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.... it is to assist Nature in moving the affections... the affections of those who have the deepest perception of the beauty of Nature.
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Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound.
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But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.
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The streams with softest sound are flowing, The grass you almost hear it growing, You hear it now, if e'er you can.
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Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?
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I'm not talking about a show me other walls of this thing button, I mean a stumble button for wallbase.
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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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The softest breeze to fairest flowers gives birth: Think not that Prudence dwells in dark abodes, She scans the future with the eye of gods.
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If the time should ever come when what is now called Science, thus famliarised to men, shall be ready to put on, as it were, a form of flesh and blood, the Poet will lend his divine spirit to the aid the transfiguration, and will welcome the Being thus produced, as a dear and genuine inmate of the household of man.
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Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.
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Delight and liberty, the simple creed of childhood.
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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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