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How is it that you live, and what is it you do?

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
Work
Life
Live

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Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there In happier beauty more pellucid streams, An ampler ether, a diviner air, And fields invested with purpureal gleams.
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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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But who shall parcel out His intellect by geometric rules, Split like a province into round and square?
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If thou art beautiful, and youth and thought endue thee with all truth-be strong--be worthy of the grace of God.
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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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Of friends, however humble, scorn not one.
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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 child is the father of man.
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Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
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Every great and original writer, in proportion as he is great and original, must himself create the taste by which he is to be relished.
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Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?
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O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive!
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And you must love him, ere to you He will seem worthy of your love.
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The Primrose for a veil had spread The largest of her upright leaves And thus for purposes benign, A simple flower deceives.
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Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither.
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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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Love betters what is best
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Books! tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it.
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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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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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