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The child shall become father to the man.

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
Child
Father
Become
Children
Men
Shall

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Books are the best type of the influence of the past.
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The vision and the faculty divine Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse.
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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.
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That best portion of a man's life, his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love.
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The very flowers are sacred to the poor.
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And what if thou, sweet May, hast known Mishap by worm and blight If expectations newly blown Have perished in thy sight If loves and joys, while up they sprung, Were caught as in a snare Such is the lot of all the young, However bright and fair.
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How is it that you live, and what is it you do?
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A power is passing from the earth.
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Love betters what is best
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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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I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough, along the mountain-side. By our own spirits we are deified We Poets in our youth begin in gladness, But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
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And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.
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Tis not in battles that from youth we train The Governor who must be wise and good, And temper with the sternness of the brain Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood.
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The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.
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Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay, And could not win thee, Sleep, by any stealth: So do not let me wear to-night away. Without thee what is all the morning's wealth? Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
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A simple child. That lightly draws its breath. And feels its life in every limb. What should it know of death?
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the Mind of Man-- My haunt, and the main region of my song.
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