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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
Hand
Hands
Thing
Trumpet
Milton
Trumpets
Became

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I, methought, while the sweet breath of heaven Was blowing on my body, felt within A correspondent breeze, that gently moved With quickening virtue, but is now become A tempest, a redundant energy, Vexing its own creation.
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With an eye made quiet by the power of harmony, and the deep power of joy, we see into the life of things.
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A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays And confident tomorrows.
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The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink I heard a voice it said Drink, pretty creature, drink'
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O Reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle Reader! you would find A tale in everything.
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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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Give all thou canst high Heaven rejects the lore of nicely-caluculated less or more.
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The flower that smells the sweetest is shy and lowly.
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For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity.
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Wild is the music of autumnal winds Amongst the faded woods.
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A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light
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Either still I find Some imperfection in the chosen theme, Or see of absolute accomplishment Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself, That I recoil and droop, and seek repose In listlessness from vain perplexity, Unprofitably travelling towards the grave.
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Monastic brotherhood, upon rock Aerial.
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Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science
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Brothers all In honour, as in one community, Scholars and gentlemen.
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Let Nature be your teacher
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A Primrose by a river's brim A yellow primrose was to him And it was something more.
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Poetry is emotion recollected in tranquillity.
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