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Milton, thou should'st be living at this hour.

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
Milton
Thou
Hour
Hours
Living

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Memories... images and precious thoughts that shall not die and cannot be destroyed.
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A genial hearth, a hospitable board, and a refined rusticity.
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When from our better selves we have too long been parted by the hurrying world, and droop. Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, how gracious, how benign is solitude.
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Mark the babe not long accustomed to this breathing world One that hath barely learned to shape a smile, though yet irrational of soul, to grasp with tiny finger - to let fall a tear And, as the heavy cloud of sleep dissolves, To stretch his limbs, becoming, as might seem. The outward functions of intelligent man.
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I have felt a presence that disturbs me with the joy of elevated thoughts a sense sublime of something far more deeply interfused, whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, and the round ocean, and the living air, and the blue sky, and in the mind of man.
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The wind, a sightless laborer, whistles at his task.
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Then blame not those who, by the mightiest lever Known to the moral world, Imagination.
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The gods approve The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul.
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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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A Primrose by a river's brim A yellow primrose was to him And it was something more.
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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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I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills When all at once I saw a crowd A host of golden daffodils Beside the lake beneath the trees Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
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The fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.
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Imagination is the means of deep insight and sympathy, the power to conceive and express images removed from normal objective reality.
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Far from the world I walk, and from all care.
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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 unconquerable pang of despised love.
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Habit rules the unreflecting herd.
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For nature then to me was all in all.
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Chains tie us down by land and sea And wishes, vain as mine, may be All that is left to comfort thee.
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