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To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
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
Thoughts
Deep
Lying
Meanest
Often
Blows
Give
Blow
Giving
Garden
Flower
Tears
More quotes by William Wordsworth
The light that never was, on sea or land The consecration, and the Poet's dream.
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On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, Musing in solitude, I oft perceive Fair trains of images before me rise, Accompanied by feelings of delight Pure, or with no unpleasing sadness mixed.
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Earth has not anything to show more fair.
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And when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet whence he blew Soul-animating strains,-alas! too few.
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We have within ourselves Enough to fill the present day with joy, And overspread the future years with hope.
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The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration.
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.
William Wordsworth
The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.
William Wordsworth
Rest and be thankful.
William Wordsworth
Far from the world I walk, and from all care.
William Wordsworth
Let beeves and home-bred kine partake The sweets of Burn-mill meadow The swan on still St. Mary's Lake Float double, swan and shadow!
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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.
William Wordsworth
Recognizes ever and anon The breeze of Nature stirring in his soul.
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Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And, even with something of a mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster child, her inmate man, Forget the glories he hath known And that imperial palace whence he came.
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The Primrose for a veil had spread The largest of her upright leaves And thus for purposes benign, A simple flower deceives.
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And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore.
William Wordsworth
There is One great society alone on earth: The noble living and the noble dead.
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Now when the primrose makes a splendid show, And lilies face the March-winds in full blow, And humbler growths as moved with one desire Put on, to welcome spring, their best attire, Poor Robin is yet flowerless but how gay With his red stalks upon this sunny day!
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Father! - to God himself we cannot give a holier name.
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Every gift of noble origin Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath.
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