Quote

I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills When all at once I saw a crowd A host of golden daffodils Beside the lake beneath the trees Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

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
Tree
Golden
Lakes
Wandered
High
Clouds
Host
Fluttering
Nature
Lonely
Beneath
Springtime
Dancing
Crowd
Lake
Spring
March
Floats
Vales
Flower
Hills
Breeze
Daffodils
Saws
Crowds
Beside
Pensive
Poetry
Trees
Cloud
Daffodil

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Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?
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A famous man is Robin Hood, The English ballad-singer's joy.
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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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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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A cheerful life is what the Muses love. A soaring spirit is their prime delight.
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For all things are less dreadful than they seem.
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But who would force the soul tilts with a straw Against a champion cased in adamant
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That to this mountain-daisy's self were known The beauty of its star-shaped shadow, thrown On the smooth surface of this naked stone!
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Faith is a passionate intuition.
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A simple child. That lightly draws its breath. And feels its life in every limb. What should it know of death?
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And the most difficult of tasks to keep Heights which the soul is competent to gain.
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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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Choice word and measured phrase above the reach Of ordinary men.
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What know we of the Blest above but that they sing, and that they love?
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The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.
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The first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
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