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The flower that smells the sweetest is shy and lowly.

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
Lowly
Shyness
Smells
Sweetest
Shy
Smell
Flower

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A few strong instincts and a few plain rules.
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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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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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Long as there's a sun that sets, Primroses will have their glory Long as there are violets, They will have a place in story: There's a flower that shall be mine, 'Tis the little Celandine.
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But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.
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Oh, blank confusion! true epitome Of what the mighty City is herself, To thousands upon thousands of her sons, Living amid the same perpetual whirl Of trivial objects, melted and reduced To one identity.
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The first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
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We murder to dissect.
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For oft, when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood they flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude
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Rapt into still communion that transcends The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, His mind was a thanksgiving to the power That made him it was blessedness and love!
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Golf is a day spent in a round of strenuous idleness.
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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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This City now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie Open unto the fields and to the sky All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
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And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.
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In truth the prison, unto which we doom Ourselves, no prison is.
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Truth takes no account of centuries.
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In ourselves our safety must be sought. By our own right hand it must be wrought.
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But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.
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