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In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease and, of its joy secure, The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, And on the vacant air.

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
Pay
Ease
Joy
Mood
Pleasure
Secure
Kindliness
Nature
Safety
Vacant
Heart
Stones
Stocks
Things
Loves
Wasting
Air
Tribute
Sweet
Indifferent

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Miss not the occasion by the forelock take that subtle power, the never-halting time.
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That mighty orb of song, The divine Milton.
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Faith is, necessary to explain anything, and to reconcile the foreknowledge of God with human evil.
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Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
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I, methought, while the sweet breath of heaven Was blowing on my body, felt within A correspondent breeze, that gently moved With quickening virtue, but is now become A tempest, a redundant energy, Vexing its own creation.
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The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.
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Not Chaos, not the darkest pit of lowest Erebus, nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out by help of dreams - can breed such fear and awe as fall upon us often when we look into our Minds, into the Mind of Man.
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And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.
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Books! tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it.
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Knowledge and increase of enduring joy From the great Nature that exists in works Of mighty Poets.
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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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The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.
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He spake of love, such love as spirits feel In worlds whose course is equable and pure No fears to beat away, no strife to heal,- The past unsighed for, and the future sure.
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I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough, along the mountain-side. By our own spirits we are deified We Poets in our youth begin in gladness, But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
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Nor less I deem that there are Powers Which of themselves our minds impress That we can feed this mind of ours In a wise passiveness
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Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.
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Stop thinking for once in your life!
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