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Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns.

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
Whose
Light
Suns
Dwelling
Settings
Setting
Sun

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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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Dreams, books, are each a world.
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Thought and theory must precede all action, that moves to salutary purposes. Yet action is nobler in itself than either thought or theory.
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Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.
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A cheerful life is what the Muses love. A soaring spirit is their prime delight.
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The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.
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Knowledge and increase of enduring joy From the great Nature that exists in works Of mighty Poets.
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Sweet is the lore which Nature brings Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect. Enough of Science and of Art Close up these barren leaves Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives.
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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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To be a Prodigal's favourite,-then, worse truth, A Miser's pensioner,-behold our lot!
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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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And now I see with eye serene, The very pulse of the machine. A being breathing thoughtful breaths, A traveler between life and death.
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Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science
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All men feel a habitual gratitude, and something of an honorable bigotry, for the objects which have long continued to please them.
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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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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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The harvest of a quiet eye, That broods and sleeps on his own heart.
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To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
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Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.
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To character and success, two things, contradictory as they may seem, must go together... humble dependence on God and manly reliance on self.
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