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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
Trumpet
Milton
Trumpets
Became
Hand
Hands
Thing

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The clouds that gather round the setting sun, Do take a sober colouring from an eye, That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality.
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Sad fancies do we then affect, In luxury of disrespect To our own prodigal excess Of too familiar happiness.
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The ocean is a mighty harmonist.
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Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.
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Tis not in battles that from youth we train The Governor who must be wise and good, And temper with the sternness of the brain Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood.
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Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain That has been, and may be again.
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The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.
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Golf is a day spent in a round of strenuous idleness.
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A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free.
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Hearing often-times the still, sad music of humanity, nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power to chasten and subdue.
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In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease and, of its joy secure, The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, And on the vacant air.
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Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry and these we adore Plain living and high thinking are no more.
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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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Fear is a cloak which old men huddle about their love, as if to keep it warm.
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Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound.
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Spires whose silent finger points to heaven.
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The child is father of the man: And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
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Laying out grounds... may be considered as a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.... it is to assist Nature in moving the affections... the affections of those who have the deepest perception of the beauty of Nature.
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Thou has left behind Powers that will work for thee,-air, earth, and skies! There 's not a breathing of the common wind That will forget thee thou hast great allies Thy friends are exultations, agonies, And love, and man's unconquerable mind.
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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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