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It is the 1st mild day of March. Each minute sweeter than before... there is a blessing in the 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
Air
Minutes
Sweeter
Mild
March
Minute
Blessing

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Who, doomed to go in company with Pain And Fear and Bloodshed,-miserable train!- Turns his necessity to glorious gain.
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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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The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.
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One solace yet remains for us who came Into this world in days when story lacked Severe research, that in our hearts we know How, for exciting youth's heroic flame, Assent is power, belief the soul of fact.
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Father! - to God himself we cannot give a holier name.
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Wisdom is oftentimes nearer when we stoop than when we soar.
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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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The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.
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Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?
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Give all thou canst high Heaven rejects the lore of nicely-caluculated less or more.
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But who shall parcel out His intellect by geometric rules, Split like a province into round and square?
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While all the future, for thy purer soul, With sober certainties of love is blest.
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