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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
Hour
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Nothing
Flower
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Glory
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Though
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Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
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The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.
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The mind that is wise mourns less for what age takes away than what it leaves behind.
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She gave me eyes, she gave me ears And humble cares, and delicate fears A heart, the fountain of sweet tears And love and thought and joy.
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Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows Like harmony in music there is a dark Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles Discordant elements, makes them cling together In one society.
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While all the future, for thy purer soul, With sober certainties of love is blest.
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In years that bring the philosophic mind.
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The clouds that gather round the setting sun, Do take a sober colouring from an eye, That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality.
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Often have I sighed to measure By myself a lonely pleasure,- Sighed to think I read a book, Only read, perhaps, by me.
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Earth helped him with the cry of blood.
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The ocean is a mighty harmonist.
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Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade Of that which once was great is passed away.
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Let beeves and home-bred kine partake The sweets of Burn-mill meadow The swan on still St. Mary's Lake Float double, swan and shadow!
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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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