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I'll teach my boy the sweetest things I'll teach him how the owlet sings.

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
Things
Sings
Sweetest
Boys
Teach

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A Primrose by a river's brim A yellow primrose was to him And it was something more.
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While all the future, for thy purer soul, With sober certainties of love is blest.
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Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour Have passed away less happy than the one That by the unwilling ploughshare died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love.
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To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar.
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Books are the best type of the influence of the past.
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[Mathematics] is an independent world created out of pure intelligence.
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Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity.
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Write to me frequently & the longest letters possible never mind whether you have facts or no to communicate fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
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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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Rest and be thankful.
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In truth the prison, unto which we doom Ourselves, no prison is.
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And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.
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She gave me eyes, she gave me ears And humble cares, and delicate fears A heart, the fountain of sweet tears And love and thought and joy.
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Prompt to move but firm to wait - knowing things rashly sought are rarely found.
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Happier of happy though I be, like them I cannot take possession of the sky, mount with a thoughtless impulse, and wheel there, one of a mighty multitude whose way and motion is a harmony and dance magnificent.
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Shalt show us how divine a thing A woman may be made.
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Faith is, necessary to explain anything, and to reconcile the foreknowledge of God with human evil.
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Books are yours, Within whose silent chambers treasure lies Preserved from age to age more precious far Than that accumulated store of gold And orient gems, which, for a day of need, The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs. These hoards of truth you can unlock at will.
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The fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.
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