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Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower.

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
Hours
Sympathy
Past
Grass
Back
Grief
Nothing
Hour
Condolences
Flower
Splendour
Glory
Bereavement
Bring
Splendor
Though
Consolation

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One in whom persuasion and belief Had ripened into faith, and faith become A passionate intuition.
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The child is father of the man.
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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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Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.
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It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the sea: Listen! the mighty being is awake, And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thundereverlastingly.
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The intellectual power, through words and things, Went sounding on a dim and perilous way!
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We bow our heads before Thee, and we laud, And magnify thy name Almighty God! But man is thy most awful instrument, In working out a pure intent.
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Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will Dear God! the very houses seem asleep And all that mighty heart is lying still!
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If thou art beautiful, and youth and thought endue thee with all truth-be strong--be worthy of the grace of God.
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This City now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie Open unto the fields and to the sky All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
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Stern daughter of the voice of God! O Duty! if that name thou love Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring and reprove.
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Up! up! my friend, and quit your books, Or surely you 'll grow double! Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks! Why all this toil and trouble?
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Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity.
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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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The tears into his eyes were brought, And thanks and praises seemed to run So fast out of his heart, I thought They never would have done. -I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning Alas! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left me mourning.
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Sweet childish days, that were as long, As twenty days are now.
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One of those heavenly days that cannot die.
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Therefore am I still a lover of the meadows and the woods, and mountains and of all that we behold from this green earth.
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In heaven above, And earth below, they best can serve true gladness Who meet most feelingly the calls of sadness.
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