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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
Trumpets
Became
Hand
Hands
Thing
Trumpet
Milton

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I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills When all at once I saw a crowd A host of golden daffodils Beside the lake beneath the trees Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
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And when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet whence he blew Soul-animating strains,-alas! too few.
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Then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils.
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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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Sweet Mercy! to the gates of heaven This minstrel lead, his sins forgiven The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour, And memory of Earth's bitter leaven Effaced forever.
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Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
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Where the statue stood Of Newton, with his prism and silent face, The marble index of a mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of thought alone.
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A multitude of causes unknown to former times are now acting with a combined force to blunt the discriminating powers of the mind, and unfitting it for all voluntary exertion to reduce it to a state of almost savage torpor.
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Delight and liberty, the simple creed of childhood.
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The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone
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I look for ghosts but none will force Their way to me. 'Tis falsely said That there was ever intercourse Between the living and the dead.
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When from our better selves we have too long been parted by the hurrying world, and droop. Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, how gracious, how benign is solitude.
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Everything is tedious when one does not read with the feeling of the Author.
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The first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
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Stern daughter of the voice of God! O Duty! if that name thou love Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring and reprove.
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Earth has not anything to show more fair.
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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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Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep/ Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind.
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Hope smiled when your nativity was cast, Children of Summer!
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