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Be mild, and cleave to gentle things, thy glory and thy happiness be there.

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
Mild
Gentle
Glory
Happiness
Things
Cleave

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Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, Let them live upon their praises.
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Ah, what a warning for a thoughtless man, Could field or grove, could any spot of earth, Show to his eye an image of the pangs Which it hath witnessed,-render back an echo Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod!
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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
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Not Chaos, not the darkest pit of lowest Erebus, nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out by help of dreams - can breed such fear and awe as fall upon us often when we look into our Minds, into the Mind of Man.
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And suddenly all your troubles melt away, all your worries are gone, and it is for no reason other than the look in your partner's eyes. Yes, sometimes life and love really is that simple.
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For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity.
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Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.
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Spires whose silent finger points to heaven.
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The mind that is wise mourns less for what age takes away than what it leaves behind.
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Love betters what is best
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A few strong instincts and a few plain rules.
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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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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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At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.
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Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close upon the growing boy.
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Come grow old with me. The best is yet to be.
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Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will Dear God! the very houses seem asleep And all that mighty heart is lying still!
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When from our better selves we have too long been parted by the hurrying world, and droop. Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, how gracious, how benign is solitude.
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One of those heavenly days that cannot die.
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The Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose.
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