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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
Much
Passenger
Way
Passengers
Life
Casual
Stood
Though
Felt
Stills
Still
Awfulness

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Oh, blank confusion! true epitome Of what the mighty City is herself, To thousands upon thousands of her sons, Living amid the same perpetual whirl Of trivial objects, melted and reduced To one identity.
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Meek Nature's evening comment on the shows That for oblivion take their daily birth From all the fuming vanities of earth.
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Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive But to be young was very heaven.
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What we have loved Others will love And we will teach them how.
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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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Every gift of noble origin Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath.
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Lady of the Mere, Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.
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I listened, motionless and still And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.
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And the most difficult of tasks to keep Heights which the soul is competent to gain.
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But who shall parcel out His intellect by geometric rules, Split like a province into round and square?
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The intellectual power, through words and things, Went sounding on a dim and perilous way!
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Careless of books, yet having felt the power Of Nature, by the gentle agency Of natural objects, led me on to feel For passions that were not my own, and think (At random and imperfectly indeed) On man, the heart of man, and human life.
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Like an army defeated the snow hath retreated.
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Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep/ Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind.
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A youth to whom was given So much of earth, so much of heaven.
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in the mind of man, A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things.
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Golf is a day spent in a round of strenuous idleness.
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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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A deep distress has humanised my soul.
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O Reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle Reader! you would find A tale in everything.
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