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Open-mindedness is the harvest of a quiet eye.

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
Mindedness
Harvest
Quiet
Open
Eye

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The earth was all before me. With a heart Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty, I look about and should the chosen guide Be nothing better than a wandering cloud, I cannot miss my way.
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The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, An appetite a feeling and a love that had no need of a remoter charm by thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.
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I listened, motionless and still And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.
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Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
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And through the heat of conflict keeps the law In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw.
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By all means sometimes be alone salute thyself see what thy soul doth wear dare to look in thy chest and tumble up and down what thou findest there.
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Ten thousand saw I at a glance, tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
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And now I see with eye serene, The very pulse of the machine. A being breathing thoughtful breaths, A traveler between life and death.
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Be mild, and cleave to gentle things, thy glory and thy happiness be there.
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And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.
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Imagination, which in truth Is but another name for absolute power And clearest insight, amplitude of mind, And reason, in her most exalted mood.
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Far from the world I walk, and from all care.
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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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I travelled among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea Nor England! did I know till then What love I bore to thee.
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His love was like the liberal air, embracing all, to cheer and bless.
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To be young was very heaven!
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By happy chance we saw A twofold image: on a grassy bank A snow-white ram, and in the crystal flood Another and the same!
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Up! up! my friend, and quit your books, Or surely you 'll grow double! Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks! Why all this toil and trouble?
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Alas! how little can a moment show Of an eye where feeling plays In ten thousand dewy rays: A face o'er which a thousand shadows go!
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The thought of death sits easy on the man Who has been born and dies among the mountains.
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