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Oft in my way have I stood still, though but a casual passenger, so much I felt the awfulness of life.
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
Felt
Stills
Still
Awfulness
Much
Passenger
Way
Passengers
Life
Casual
Stood
Though
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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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Faith is, necessary to explain anything, and to reconcile the foreknowledge of God with human evil.
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A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays And confident tomorrows.
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O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive!
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But who would force the soul tilts with a straw Against a champion cased in adamant
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Delivered from the galling yoke of time.
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Wisdom and Spirit of the universe! Thou soul, that art the eternity of thought, And giv'st to forms and images a breath And everlasting motion.
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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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Where the statue stood Of Newton, with his prism and silent face, The marble index of a mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of thought alone.
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Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?
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Then blame not those who, by the mightiest lever Known to the moral world, Imagination.
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By all means sometimes be alone salute thyself see what thy soul doth wear dare to look in thy chest and tumble up and down what thou findest there.
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And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore.
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The daisy, by the shadow that it casts, Protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun.
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Whether we be young or old,Our destiny, our being's heart and home,Is with infinitude, and only thereWith hope it is, hope that can never die,Effort and expectation, and desire,And something evermore about to be.
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The Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose.
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Earth helped him with the cry of blood.
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The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration.
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Me this uncharted freedom tires I feel the weight of chance desires, My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same.
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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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