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We murder to dissect.

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
Dissect
Murder
Discovery

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But who is innocent? By grace divine, Not otherwise,O Nature! we are thine.
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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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Burn all the statutes and their shelves: They stir us up against our kind And worse, against ourselves.
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The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone
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What is good for a bootless bene? With these dark words begins my tale And their meaning is, Whence can comfort spring When prayer is of no avail?
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A light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove.
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Those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings Blank misgivings of a Creature Moving about in worlds not realised, High instincts before which our mortal Nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised
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Those old credulities, to Nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock Of history?
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Sweet childish days, that were as long, As twenty days are now.
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Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, Let them live upon their praises.
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Knowing that Nature never did betray the heart that loved her 'tis her privilege, through all the years of this our life, to lead from joy to joy.
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A Primrose by a river's brim A yellow primrose was to him And it was something more.
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For mightier far Than strength of nerve or sinew, or the sway Of magic potent over sun and star, Is love, though oft to agony distrest, And though his favourite be feeble woman's breast.
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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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We have within ourselves Enough to fill the present day with joy, And overspread the future years with hope.
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The Poet, gentle creature as he is, Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times His fits when he is neither sick nor well, Though no distress be near him but his own Unmanageable thoughts.
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Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.
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Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there In happier beauty more pellucid streams, An ampler ether, a diviner air, And fields invested with purpureal gleams.
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Happier of happy though I be, like them I cannot take possession of the sky, mount with a thoughtless impulse, and wheel there, one of a mighty multitude whose way and motion is a harmony and dance magnificent.
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There is a comfort in the strength of love 'Twill make a thing endurable, which else would overset the brain, or break the heart.
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