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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
Sightless
Whistles
Laborer
Laborers
Task
Tasks
Wind

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On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, Musing in solitude, I oft perceive Fair trains of images before me rise, Accompanied by feelings of delight Pure, or with no unpleasing sadness mixed.
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The sunshine is a glorious birth But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.
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Great is the glory, for the strife is hard!
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We bow our heads before Thee, and we laud, And magnify thy name Almighty God! But man is thy most awful instrument, In working out a pure intent.
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For all things are less dreadful than they seem.
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Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.
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Imagination, which in truth Is but another name for absolute power And clearest insight, amplitude of mind, And reason, in her most exalted mood.
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A few strong instincts and a few plain rules.
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A Briton even in love should be A subject, not a slave!
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What we have loved Others will love And we will teach them how.
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And he is oft the wisest manWho is not wise at all.
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Free as a bird to settle where I will.
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One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.
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In ourselves our safety must be sought. By our own right hand it must be wrought.
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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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I, methought, while the sweet breath of heaven Was blowing on my body, felt within A correspondent breeze, that gently moved With quickening virtue, but is now become A tempest, a redundant energy, Vexing its own creation.
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I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, wherever nature led.
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The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration.
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Pleasures newly found are sweet When they lie about our feet.
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Truth takes no account of centuries.
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