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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.

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
Ever
Divine
Produced
Come
Ready
Aids
Men
Blood
Welcome
Time
Shall
Genuine
Inmate
Called
Flesh
Transfiguration
Science
Thus
Inmates
Spirit
Dear
Lend
Form
Poet
Household

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Free as a bird to settle where I will.
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Plain living and high thinking are no more.
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Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.
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Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn
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The gods approve The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul.
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Books are the best type of the influence of the past.
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Plain living and high thinking are no more. The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone our peace, our fearful innocence, And pure religion breathing household laws.
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And when the stream Which overflowed the soul was passed away, A consciousness remained that it had left Deposited upon the silent shore Of memory images and precious thoughts That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed.
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Every great and original writer, in proportion as he is great and original, must himself create the taste by which he is to be relished.
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There's something in a flying horse, There's something in a huge balloon.
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With little here to do or see Of things that in the great world be, Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee For thou art worthy, Thou unassuming commonplace Of Nature, with that homely face, And yet with something of a grace Which love makes for thee!
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This City now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie Open unto the fields and to the sky All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
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She gave me eyes, she gave me ears And humble cares, and delicate fears A heart, the fountain of sweet tears And love and thought and joy.
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The child is father of the man.
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That mighty orb of song, The divine Milton.
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Turning, for them who pass, the common dust Of servile opportunity to gold.
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I'll teach my boy the sweetest things I'll teach him how the owlet sings.
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A great poet ought to a certain degree to rectify men's feelings... to render their feelings more sane, pure and permanent, in short, more consonant to Nature.
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Serene will be our days, and bright and happy will our nature be, when love is an unerring light, and joy its own security.
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Laying out grounds may be considered a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.
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