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

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A Briton even in love should be A subject, not a slave!
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My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began So is it now I am a man So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! The Child is father of the Man I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
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The Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society.
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Pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.
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Spade! Thou art a tool of honor in my hands. I press thee, through a yielding soil, with pride.
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How is it that you live, and what is it you do?
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I am already kindly disposed towards you. My friendship it is not in my power to give: this is a gift which no man can make, it is not in our own power: a sound and healthy friendship is the growth of time and circumstance, it will spring up and thrive like a wildflower when these favour, and when they do not, it is in vain to look for it.
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Bright gem instinct with music, vocal spark.
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I'll teach my boy the sweetest things I'll teach him how the owlet sings.
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The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink I heard a voice it said Drink, pretty creature, drink'
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Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain That has been, and may be again.
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Thou has left behind Powers that will work for thee,-air, earth, and skies! There 's not a breathing of the common wind That will forget thee thou hast great allies Thy friends are exultations, agonies, And love, and man's unconquerable mind.
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As high as we have mounted in delight, In our dejection do we sink as low.
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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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Hearing often-times the still, sad music of humanity, nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power to chasten and subdue.
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To be a Prodigal's favourite,-then, worse truth, A Miser's pensioner,-behold our lot!
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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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Be mild, and cleave to gentle things, thy glory and thy happiness be there.
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Of friends, however humble, scorn not one.
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As generations come and go, Their arts, their customs, ebb and flow Fate, fortune, sweep strong powers away, And feeble, of themselves, decay.
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