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The wealthiest man among us is the best

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
Wealth
Best
Men
Wealthiest
Among

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The Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society.
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Faith is, necessary to explain anything, and to reconcile the foreknowledge of God with human evil.
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A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays And confident tomorrows.
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Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
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Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher.
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Dreams, books, are each a world and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow.
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But who is innocent? By grace divine, Not otherwise,O Nature! we are thine.
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And you must love him, ere to you He will seem worthy of your love.
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I've watched you now a full half-hour Self-poised upon that yellow flower And, little Butterfly! Indeed I know not if you sleep or feed. How motionless! - not frozen seas More motionless! and then What joy awaits you, when the breeze Hath found you out among the trees, And calls you forth again!
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The eye— it cannot choose but see we cannot bid the ear be still our bodies feel, where'er they be, against or with our will.
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Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?
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Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room And hermits are contented with their cells.
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Wisdom and Spirit of the universe! Thou soul, that art the eternity of thought, And giv'st to forms and images a breath And everlasting motion.
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He who feels contempt for any living thing hath faculties that he hath never used, and thought with him is in its infancy.
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Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray.
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Now when the primrose makes a splendid show, And lilies face the March-winds in full blow, And humbler growths as moved with one desire Put on, to welcome spring, their best attire, Poor Robin is yet flowerless but how gay With his red stalks upon this sunny day!
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The best of what we do and are, Just God, forgive!
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If the time should ever come when what is now called Science, thus famliarised to men, shall be ready to put on, as it were, a form of flesh and blood, the Poet will lend his divine spirit to the aid the transfiguration, and will welcome the Being thus produced, as a dear and genuine inmate of the household of man.
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