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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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One impulse from a vernal wood
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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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Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, We feel that we are greater than we know.
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And now I see with eye serene, The very pulse of the machine. A being breathing thoughtful breaths, A traveler between life and death.
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But to a higher mark than song can reach, Rose this pure eloquence.
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And what if thou, sweet May, hast known Mishap by worm and blight If expectations newly blown Have perished in thy sight If loves and joys, while up they sprung, Were caught as in a snare Such is the lot of all the young, However bright and fair.
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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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Primroses, the Spring may love them Summer knows but little of them.
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The vision and the faculty divine Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse.
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The stars of midnight shall be dear To her and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face.
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Since every mortal power of Coleridge Was frozen at its marvellous source, The rapt one, of the godlike forehead, The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth: And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, Has vanished from his lonely hearth.
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Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, Let them live upon their praises.
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But hushed be every thought that springs From out the bitterness of things.
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Books are the best type of the influence of the past.
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With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars.
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By all means sometimes be alone salute thyself see what thy soul doth wear dare to look in thy chest and tumble up and down what thou findest there.
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Hope smiled when your nativity was cast, Children of Summer!
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He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.
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The mind of man is a thousand times more beautiful than the earth on which he dwells.
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Because the good old rule Sufficeth them,-the simple plan, That they should take who have the power, And they should keep who can.
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