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the Mind of Man-- My haunt, and the main region of my song.

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
Song
Mind
Men
Haunt
Thinking
Region
Humankind
Thoughtful
Regions
Main

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Minds that have nothing to confer Find little to perceive.
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And you must love him, ere to you He will seem worthy of your love.
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Careless of books, yet having felt the power Of Nature, by the gentle agency Of natural objects, led me on to feel For passions that were not my own, and think (At random and imperfectly indeed) On man, the heart of man, and human life.
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Great God! I'd rather be a Pagan.
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Society became my glittering bride, And airy hopes my children.
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Wisdom and Spirit of the universe! Thou soul, that art the eternity of thought, And giv'st to forms and images a breath And everlasting motion.
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I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills When all at once I saw a crowd A host of golden daffodils Beside the lake beneath the trees Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
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The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.
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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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Let the moon shine on the in thy solitary walk and let the misty mountain-winds be free to blow against thee.
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Life is divided into three terms - that which was, which is, and which will be. Let us learn from the past to profit by the present, and from the present, to live better in the future.
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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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My apprehension comes in crowds, I dread the rustling of the grass, The very shadows of the clouds, Have power to shake me as they pass, I question things and do not find, one that will answer to my mind, And all the world appears unkind.
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She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.
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The mind that is wise mourns less for what age takes away than what it leaves behind.
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The thought of death sits easy on the man Who has been born and dies among the mountains.
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Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, We feel that we are greater than we know.
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Write to me frequently & the longest letters possible never mind whether you have facts or no to communicate fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
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Every gift of noble origin Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath.
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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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