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Dreams, books, are each a world.

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
Dreams
Books
Dream
Book
World

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Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet
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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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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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My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard.
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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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Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.
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Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.
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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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To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
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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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Bright flower! whose home is everywhere Bold in maternal nature's care And all the long year through the heir Of joy or sorrow, Methinks that there abides in thee Some concord with humanity, Given to no other flower I see The forest through.
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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 wind, a sightless laborer, whistles at his task.
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Earth has not anything to show more fair.
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His high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright.
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Wisdom married to immortal verse.
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Me this uncharted freedom tires I feel the weight of chance desires, My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same.
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It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the sea: Listen! the mighty being is awake, And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thundereverlastingly.
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Memories... images and precious thoughts that shall not die and cannot be destroyed.
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The Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society.
William Wordsworth