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Faith is, necessary to explain anything, and to reconcile the foreknowledge of God with human evil.

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
Explain
Necessary
Faith
Evil
Anything
Human
Humans
Foreknowledge
Reconcile

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Books! tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it.
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The light that never was, on sea or land The consecration, and the Poet's dream.
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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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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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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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Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.
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Since every mortal power of Coleridge Was frozen at its marvellous source, The rapt one, of the godlike forehead, The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth: And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, Has vanished from his lonely hearth.
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One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.
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Dreams, books, are each a world.
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Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill The Ploughboy is whooping — anon — anon! There's joy in the mountains: There's life in the fountains Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing The rain is over and gone.
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That to this mountain-daisy's self were known The beauty of its star-shaped shadow, thrown On the smooth surface of this naked stone!
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Give all thou canst high Heaven rejects the lore of nicely-caluculated less or more.
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He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.
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Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.
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But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.
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Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee! . . . . . . Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart: So didst thou travel on life's common way In cheerful godliness.
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Recognizes ever and anon The breeze of Nature stirring in his soul.
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