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How does the Meadow flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free down to its root, and in that freedom bold.

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
Doe
Bloom
Littles
Bold
Little
Root
Love
Lovely
Roots
Flower
Meadow
Freedom
Unfold
Free
Meadows

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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.
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Nature never did betray the heart that loved her.
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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.
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Like an army defeated the snow hath retreated.
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What we have loved Others will love And we will teach them how.
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Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn
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Like thoughts whose very sweetness yielded proof that they were born for immortality.
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The moving accident is not my trade To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.
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Free as a bird to settle where I will.
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one daffodil is worth a thousand pleasures, then one is too few.
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Bright was the summer's noon when quickening steps Followed each other till a dreary moor Was crossed, a bare ridge clomb, upon whose top Standing alone, as from a rampart's edge, I overlooked the bed of Windermere, Like a vast river, stretching in the sun.
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Love betters what is best
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But He is risen, a later star of dawn.
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Delight and liberty, the simple creed of childhood.
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What know we of the Blest above but that they sing, and that they love?
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O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?
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No motion has she now, no force she neither hears nor sees rolled around in earth's diurnal course, with rocks, and stones, and trees.
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Turning, for them who pass, the common dust Of servile opportunity to gold.
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Strongest minds are often those whom the noisy world hears least.
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The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.
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