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one daffodil is worth a thousand pleasures, then one is too few.

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
Nature
Daffodil
Pleasures
Worth
Thousand
Pleasure

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But He is risen, a later star of dawn.
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Often have I sighed to measure By myself a lonely pleasure,- Sighed to think I read a book, Only read, perhaps, by me.
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We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
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But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.
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We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted.
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Every gift of noble origin Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath.
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What is good for a bootless bene? With these dark words begins my tale And their meaning is, Whence can comfort spring When prayer is of no avail?
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Turning, for them who pass, the common dust Of servile opportunity to gold.
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True beauty dwells in deep retreats, Whose veil is unremoved Till heart with heart in concord beats, And the lover is beloved.
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For youthful faults ripe virtues shall atone.
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my brain Worked with a dim and undetermined sense Of unknown modes of being o'er my thoughts There hung a darkness, call it solitude Or blank desertion.
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Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares!- The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays.
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Nature's old felicities.
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A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard... Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.
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A few strong instincts and a few plain rules.
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Wisdom is oftentimes nearer when we stoop than when we soar.
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My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard.
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