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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
Men
Haunt
Thinking
Region
Humankind
Thoughtful
Regions
Main
Song
Mind

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Open-mindedness is the harvest of a quiet eye.
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Prompt to move but firm to wait - knowing things rashly sought are rarely found.
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The budding rose above the rose full blown.
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And he is oft the wisest manWho is not wise at all.
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There is One great society alone on earth: The noble living and the noble dead.
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The Poet, gentle creature as he is, Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times His fits when he is neither sick nor well, Though no distress be near him but his own Unmanageable thoughts.
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That though the radiance which was once so bright be now forever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, glory in the flower. We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
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I am already kindly disposed towards you. My friendship it is not in my power to give: this is a gift which no man can make, it is not in our own power: a sound and healthy friendship is the growth of time and circumstance, it will spring up and thrive like a wildflower when these favour, and when they do not, it is in vain to look for it.
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How many undervalue the power of simplicity ! But it is the real key to the heart.
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Behold the Child among his new-born blisses A six years' Darling of a pigmy size! See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly-learned art.
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And now I see with eye serene, The very pulse of the machine. A being breathing thoughtful breaths, A traveler between life and death.
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Oft on the dappled turf at ease I sit, and play with similes, Loose type of things through all degrees.
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A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard... Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.
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She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be But she is in her grave, and oh The difference to me!
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For oft, when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood they flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude
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The gods approve The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul.
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Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain That has been, and may be again.
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By all means sometimes be alone salute thyself see what thy soul doth wear dare to look in thy chest and tumble up and down what thou findest there.
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Nature's old felicities.
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Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares!- The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays.
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