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The wind, a sightless laborer, whistles at his task.

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
Wind
Sightless
Whistles
Laborer
Laborers
Task
Tasks

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The streams with softest sound are flowing, The grass you almost hear it growing, You hear it now, if e'er you can.
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A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light
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The ocean is a mighty harmonist.
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Neither evil tongues, rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all the dreary intercourse of daily life, shall ever prevail against us.
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Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep/ Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind.
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Every gift of noble origin Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath.
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Dreams, books, are each a world.
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But hushed be every thought that springs From out the bitterness of things.
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Hope smiled when your nativity was cast, Children of Summer!
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And suddenly all your troubles melt away, all your worries are gone, and it is for no reason other than the look in your partner's eyes. Yes, sometimes life and love really is that simple.
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Not Chaos, not the darkest pit of lowest Erebus, nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out by help of dreams - can breed such fear and awe as fall upon us often when we look into our Minds, into the Mind of Man.
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All that we behold is full of blessings.
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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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Pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.
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Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive But to be young was very heaven.
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There is a comfort in the strength of love 'Twill make a thing endurable, which else would overset the brain, or break the heart.
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Pleasures newly found are sweet When they lie about our feet.
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Either still I find Some imperfection in the chosen theme, Or see of absolute accomplishment Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself, That I recoil and droop, and seek repose In listlessness from vain perplexity, Unprofitably travelling towards the grave.
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Wisdom married to immortal verse.
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Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet
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