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On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, Musing is solitude
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
Human
Humans
Men
Musing
Life
Musings
Acceptance
Solitude
Reflection
Nature
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Small service is true service, while it lasts.
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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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Oft in my way have I stood still, though but a casual passenger, so much I felt the awfulness of life.
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The child is father of the man.
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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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Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?
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The flower that smells the sweetest is shy and lowly.
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Men who can hear the Decalogue, and feel To self-reproach.
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How does the Meadow flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free down to its root, and in that freedom bold.
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As high as we have mounted in delight, In our dejection do we sink as low.
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The tears into his eyes were brought, And thanks and praises seemed to run So fast out of his heart, I thought They never would have done. -I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning Alas! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left me mourning.
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Plain living and high thinking are no more. The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone our peace, our fearful innocence, And pure religion breathing household laws.
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But who is innocent? By grace divine, Not otherwise,O Nature! we are thine.
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Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain That has been, and may be again.
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Then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils.
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Stay, little cheerful Robin! stay, And at my casement sing, Though it should prove a farewell lay And this our parting spring. * * * * * Then, little Bird, this boon confer, Come, and my requiem sing, Nor fail to be the harbinger Of everlasting spring.
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The fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.
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The softest breeze to fairest flowers gives birth: Think not that Prudence dwells in dark abodes, She scans the future with the eye of gods.
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We murder to dissect.
William Wordsworth
Yon foaming flood seems motionless as iceIts dizzy turbulence eludes the eye,Frozen by distance.
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