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A light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove.

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
Light
Reprove
Erring
Check
Guide
Checks
Guides

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For nature then to me was all in all.
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Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher.
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And the most difficult of tasks to keep Heights which the soul is competent to gain.
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The soft blue sky did never melt Into his heart he never felt The witchery of the soft blue sky!
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Life is divided into three terms - that which was, which is, and which will be. Let us learn from the past to profit by the present, and from the present, to live better in the future.
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Nature's old felicities.
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Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.
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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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Death is the quiet haven of us all.
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Sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart.
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Faith is a passionate intuition.
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No motion has she now, no force she neither hears nor sees rolled around in earth's diurnal course, with rocks, and stones, and trees.
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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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A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by One after one the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky - I've thought of all by turns, and still I lie Sleepless.
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Sweet is the lore which Nature brings Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: We murder to dissect.
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The unconquerable pang of despised love.
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The ocean is a mighty harmonist.
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The sunshine is a glorious birth But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.
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The streams with softest sound are flowing, The grass you almost hear it growing, You hear it now, if e'er you can.
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Often have I sighed to measure By myself a lonely pleasure,- Sighed to think I read a book, Only read, perhaps, by me.
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