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Poetry has never brought me in enough money to buy shoestrings.

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
Brought
Poetry
Money
Enough
Never

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I'll teach my boy the sweetest things I'll teach him how the owlet sings.
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The child shall become father to the man.
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That kill the bloom before its time, And blanch, without the owner's crime, The most resplendent hair.
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Whether we be young or old,Our destiny, our being's heart and home,Is with infinitude, and only thereWith hope it is, hope that can never die,Effort and expectation, and desire,And something evermore about to be.
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... and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
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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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Enough, if something from our hands have power To live, and act, and serve the future hour And if, as toward the silent tomb we go, Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, We feel that we are greater than we know.
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Wisdom married to immortal verse.
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Sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart.
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But who would force the soul tilts with a straw Against a champion cased in adamant
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Miss not the occasion by the forelock take that subtle power, the never-halting time.
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She seemed a thing that could not feel the touch of earthly years.
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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 earth was all before me. With a heart Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty, I look about and should the chosen guide Be nothing better than a wandering cloud, I cannot miss my way.
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Yet sometimes, when the secret cup Of still and serious thought went round, It seemed as if he drank it up, He felt with spirit so profound.
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Nature never did betray the heart that loved her.
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A mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone.
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Chains tie us down by land and sea And wishes, vain as mine, may be All that is left to comfort thee.
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True dignity abides with him alone Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, Can still suspect, and still revere himself, In lowliness of heart.
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As in the eye of Nature he has lived, So in the eye of Nature let him die!
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