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To be young was very heaven!

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
Youth
Heaven
Young

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The mysteries that cups of flowers infold And all the gorgeous sights which fairies do behold.
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The unconquerable pang of despised love.
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With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars.
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Dreams, books, are each a world and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow.
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What are fears but voices airy? Whispering harm where harm is not. And deluding the unwary Till the fatal bolt is shot!
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Heaven lies about us in our infancy.
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The gods approve The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul.
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While all the future, for thy purer soul, With sober certainties of love is blest.
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A great poet ought to a certain degree to rectify men's feelings... to render their feelings more sane, pure and permanent, in short, more consonant to Nature.
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We live by Admiration, Hope, and Love And, even as these are well and wisely fixed, In dignity of being we ascend.
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But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.
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And when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet whence he blew Soul-animating strains,-alas! too few.
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Those old credulities, to Nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock Of history?
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar.
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The common growth of Mother Earth Suffices me,-her tears, her mirth, Her humblest mirth and tears.
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We Poets in our youth begin in gladness But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
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Long as there's a sun that sets, Primroses will have their glory Long as there are violets, They will have a place in story: There's a flower that shall be mine, 'Tis the little Celandine.
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.
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Those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings Blank misgivings of a Creature Moving about in worlds not realised, High instincts before which our mortal Nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised
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O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?
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