Dedicated to William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

As moved by his thoughts in Grade 4 when I read "Lines written in Early spring," as I was in undergraduate studies when I read the "Preface to Lyrical Ballads," this post graces my blog as a remembrance to Wordsworth's thoughts and verses close to my mind and soul...
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LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING

          I HEARD a thousand blended notes,
        While in a grove I sate reclined,
        In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
        Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

        To her fair works did Nature link
        The human soul that through me ran;
        And much it grieved my heart to think
        What man has made of man.

        Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
        The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;                         10
        And 'tis my faith that every flower
        Enjoys the air it breathes.

        The birds around me hopped and played,
        Their thoughts I cannot measure:--
        But the least motion which they made
        It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

        The budding twigs spread out their fan,
        To catch the breezy air;
        And I must think, do all I can,
        That there was pleasure there.                              20

        If this belief from heaven be sent,
        If such be Nature's holy plan,
        Have I not reason to lament
        What man has made of man?
                                                            1798.
Taken from: http://www.bartleby.com/145/ww130.html
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EXCERPTS FROM THE PREFACE TO "LYRICAL BALLADS":

For the human mind is capable of being excited 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, and who 
does not further know, that one being is elevated above another, in 
proportion as he possesses this capability. It has therefore appeared to
 me, that to endeavour to produce or enlarge this capability is one of 
the best services in which, at any period, a Writer can be engaged; but 
this service, excellent at all times, is especially so at the present 
day. For 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. The most effective of these causes are the great 
national events which are daily taking place, and the increasing 
accumulation of men in cities, where the uniformity of their occupations
 produces a craving for extraordinary incident, which the rapid 
communication of intelligence hourly gratifies. to this tendency of life
 and manners the literature and theatrical exhibitions of the country 
have conformed themselves.

• In spite of difference of soil and climate, of language and manners, of laws and customs—in spite of things silently gone out of mind, and things violently destroyed, the Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society, as it is spread over the whole earth, and over all times.

• What is a Poet?...He is a man speaking to men: a man, it is true, endowed with more lively sensibility, more enthusiasm and tenderness, who has a greater knowledge of human nature, and a more comprehensive soul, than are supposed to be common among mankind; a man pleased with his own passions and volitions, and who rejoices more than other men in the spirit of life that is in him; delighting to contemplate similar volitions and passions as manifested in the goings-on of the Universe, and habitually impelled to create them where he does not find them.
  • Preface

• I have said that poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.
  • Preface

• — A simple child,
  That lightly draws its breath,
  And feels its life in every limb,
  What should it know of death?
  • We Are Seven, st. 1 (1798)

Source: http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/William_Wordsworth