Portrait of William Wordsworth by Benjamin Robert Haydon (National Portrait Gallery).
|Born||(1770-04-07)7 April 1770
Cockermouth, Cumberland, England
|Died||23 April 1850(1850-04-23) (aged 80)
|Alma mater||St John’s College, Cambridge|
|Notable works||Lyrical Ballads, Poems in Two Volumes, The Excursion, The Prelude, I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud|
A multitude of causes unknown to former times are now acting with a combined force to blunt the discriminating powers of the mind, and unfitting it for all voluntary exertion to reduce it to a state of almost savage torpor.
Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.
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.
The human mind is capable of excitement without the application of gross and violent stimulants; and he must have a very faint perception of its beauty and dignity who does not know this.
One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.
Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity.
In modern business it is not the crook who is to be feared most, it is the honest man who doesn’t know what he is doing.
For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity.
That best portion of a man’s life, his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love.
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.
The mind that is wise mourns less for what age takes away; than what it leaves behind.
To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
The best portion of a good man’s life is his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love.
How does the Meadow flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free down to its root, and in that freedom bold.
But an old age serene and bright, and lovely as a Lapland night, shall lead thee to thy grave.
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.
That though the radiance which was once so bright be now forever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, glory in the flower. We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
With an eye made quiet by the power of harmony, and the deep power of joy, we see into the life of things.
The world is too much with us; late and soon, getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours.
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. Not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come.
Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry; and these we adore; Plain living and high thinking are no more.