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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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Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.
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We must be free or die, who speak the tongue That Shakespeare spake the faith and morals hold Which Milton held.
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Dreams, books, are each a world.
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But who, if he be called upon to face Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined Great issues, good or bad for humankind, Is happy as a lover.
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Let beeves and home-bred kine partake The sweets of Burn-mill meadow The swan on still St. Mary's Lake Float double, swan and shadow!
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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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For nature then to me was all in all.
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A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by One after one the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky - I've thought of all by turns, and still I lie Sleepless.
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Nor less I deem that there are Powers Which of themselves our minds impress That we can feed this mind of ours In a wise passiveness
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For youthful faults ripe virtues shall atone.
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Oft in my way have I stood still, though but a casual passenger, so much I felt the awfulness of life.
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Far from the world I walk, and from all care.
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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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When his veering gait And every motion of his starry train Seem governed by a strain Of music, audible to him alone.
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Turning, for them who pass, the common dust Of servile opportunity to gold.
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The Eagle, he was lord above
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Everything is tedious when one does not read with the feeling of the Author.
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For all things are less dreadful than they seem.
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This City now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie Open unto the fields and to the sky All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
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Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will Dear God! the very houses seem asleep And all that mighty heart is lying still!
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