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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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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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A light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove.
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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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Come grow old with me. The best is yet to be.
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She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be But she is in her grave, and oh The difference to me!
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The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.
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Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
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The moving accident is not my trade To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.
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One of those heavenly days that cannot die.
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That though the radiance which was once so bright be now forever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, glory in the flower. We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
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Up! up! my friend, and quit your books, Or surely you 'll grow double! Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks! Why all this toil and trouble?
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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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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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Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.
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Careless of books, yet having felt the power Of Nature, by the gentle agency Of natural objects, led me on to feel For passions that were not my own, and think (At random and imperfectly indeed) On man, the heart of man, and human life.
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Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray.
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Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade Of that which once was great is passed away.
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Wisdom sits with children round her knees.
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This solitary Tree! a living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay Of form and aspect too magnificent To be destroyed.
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Death is the quiet haven of us all.
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