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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.

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
Feels
Natural
Humankind
Heart
Felt
Passions
Men
Nature
Agency
Think
Power
Gentle
Thinking
Human
Indeed
Life
Humans
Objects
Imperfectly
Book
Books
Careless
Feel
Passion
Random

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O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive!
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The Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society.
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These hoards of wealth you can unlock at will.
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Rapt into still communion that transcends The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, His mind was a thanksgiving to the power That made him it was blessedness and love!
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A babe, by intercourse of touch I held mute dialogues with my Mother's heart.
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[Mathematics] is an independent world created out of pure intelligence.
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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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As high as we have mounted in delight, In our dejection do we sink as low.
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A cheerful life is what the Muses love. A soaring spirit is their prime delight.
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Books are yours, Within whose silent chambers treasure lies Preserved from age to age more precious far Than that accumulated store of gold And orient gems, which, for a day of need, The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs. These hoards of truth you can unlock at will.
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The wind, a sightless laborer, whistles at his task.
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And the most difficult of tasks to keep Heights which the soul is competent to gain.
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Since thy return, through days and weeks Of hope that grew by stealth, How many wan and faded cheeks Have kindled into health! The Old, by thee revived, have said, 'Another year is ours' And wayworn Wanderers, poorly fed, Have smiled upon thy flowers.
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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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Lady of the Mere, Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.
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Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher.
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Huge and mighty forms that do not live like living men, moved slowly through the mind by day and were trouble to my dreams.
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Burn all the statutes and their shelves: They stir us up against our kind And worse, against ourselves.
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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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Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill The Ploughboy is whooping — anon — anon! There's joy in the mountains: There's life in the fountains Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing The rain is over and gone.
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