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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
Love
Lovely
Roots
Flower
Meadow
Freedom
Unfold
Free
Meadows
Doe
Bloom
Littles
Bold
Little
Root
More quotes by William Wordsworth
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain That has been, and may be again.
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The best of what we do and are, Just God, forgive!
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There is One great society alone on earth: The noble living and the noble dead.
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And the most difficult of tasks to keep Heights which the soul is competent to gain.
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Wisdom and Spirit of the universe! Thou soul, that art the eternity of thought, And giv'st to forms and images a breath And everlasting motion.
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On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, Musing is solitude
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The education of circumstances is superior to that of tuition.
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Everything is tedious when one does not read with the feeling of the Author.
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Nor less I deem that there are Powers Which of themselves our minds impress That we can feed this mind of ours In a wise passiveness
William Wordsworth
Because the good old rule Sufficeth them,-the simple plan, That they should take who have the power, And they should keep who can.
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Where the statue stood Of Newton, with his prism and silent face, The marble index of a mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of thought alone.
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True dignity abides with him alone Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, Can still suspect, and still revere himself, In lowliness of heart.
William Wordsworth
Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, Let them live upon their praises.
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The softest breeze to fairest flowers gives birth: Think not that Prudence dwells in dark abodes, She scans the future with the eye of gods.
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One of those heavenly days that cannot die.
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My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began So is it now I am a man So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! The Child is father of the Man I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
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Tis not in battles that from youth we train The Governor who must be wise and good, And temper with the sternness of the brain Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood.
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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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We Poets in our youth begin in gladness But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
William Wordsworth
Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.
William Wordsworth
