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Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet

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
Became
Hand
Hands
Thing
Trumpet
Milton
Trumpets

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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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Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower.
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It is the 1st mild day of March. Each minute sweeter than before... there is a blessing in the air.
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Not in Utopia, -- subterranean fields, --Or some secreted island, Heaven knows whereBut in the very world, which is the worldOf all of us, -- the place where in the endWe find our happiness, or not at all
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The sunshine is a glorious birth But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.
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Spires whose silent finger points to heaven.
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In truth the prison, unto which we doom Ourselves, no prison is.
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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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As thou these ashes, little brook, wilt bear Into the Avon, Avon to the tide Of Severn, Severn to the narrow seas, Into main ocean they, this deed accursed An emblem yields to friends and enemies How the bold teacher's doctrine, sanctified By truth, shall spread, throughout the world dispersed.
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The wealthiest man among us is the best
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A lawyer art thou? Draw not nigh! Go, carry to some fitter place The keenness of that practised eye, The hardness of that sallow face.
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The tears into his eyes were brought, And thanks and praises seemed to run So fast out of his heart, I thought They never would have done. -I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning Alas! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left me mourning.
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Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
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Let beeves and home-bred kine partake The sweets of Burn-mill meadow The swan on still St. Mary's Lake Float double, swan and shadow!
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Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And, even with something of a mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster child, her inmate man, Forget the glories he hath known And that imperial palace whence he came.
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poetry is the breath and finer spirit of knowledge
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Like an army defeated the snow hath retreated.
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the Mind of Man-- My haunt, and the main region of my song.
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Therefore am I still a lover of the meadows and the woods, and mountains and of all that we behold from this green earth.
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That to this mountain-daisy's self were known The beauty of its star-shaped shadow, thrown On the smooth surface of this naked stone!
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