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Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion.

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
Religion
Breathes
Comforts
Origin
Breathe
Comfort
Poetry
Thoughts
Divine
Administers

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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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There is a luxury in self-dispraise And inward self-disparagement affords To meditative spleen a grateful feast.
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How is it that you live, and what is it you do?
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Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close upon the growing boy.
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Serene will be our days, and bright and happy will our nature be, when love is an unerring light, and joy its own security.
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That inward eye/ Which is the bliss of solitude.
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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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The sightless Milton, with his hair Around his placid temples curled And Shakespeare at his side,-a freight, If clay could think and mind were weight, For him who bore the world!
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Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, We feel that we are greater than we know.
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Free as a bird to settle where I will.
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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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Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay, And could not win thee, Sleep, by any stealth: So do not let me wear to-night away. Without thee what is all the morning's wealth? Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
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To the solid ground Of nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye.
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Chains tie us down by land and sea And wishes, vain as mine, may be All that is left to comfort thee.
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Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry and these we adore Plain living and high thinking are no more.
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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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Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there In happier beauty more pellucid streams, An ampler ether, a diviner air, And fields invested with purpureal gleams.
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Happier of happy though I be, like them I cannot take possession of the sky, mount with a thoughtless impulse, and wheel there, one of a mighty multitude whose way and motion is a harmony and dance magnificent.
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The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, An appetite a feeling and a love that had no need of a remoter charm by thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.
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And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.
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