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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
Thousand
Pleasure
Nature
Daffodil
Pleasures
Worth

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His high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright.
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Oh, blank confusion! true epitome Of what the mighty City is herself, To thousands upon thousands of her sons, Living amid the same perpetual whirl Of trivial objects, melted and reduced To one identity.
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Books are the best type of the influence of the past.
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As in the eye of Nature he has lived, So in the eye of Nature let him die!
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Milton, thou should'st be living at this hour.
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Whether we be young or old,Our destiny, our being's heart and home,Is with infinitude, and only thereWith hope it is, hope that can never die,Effort and expectation, and desire,And something evermore about to be.
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Action is transitory, a step, a blow, The motion of a muscle, this way or that, 'Tis done--And in the after-vacancy, We wonder at ourselves, like men betrayed.
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A light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove.
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A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays And confident tomorrows.
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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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Open-mindedness is the harvest of a quiet eye.
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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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Great is the glory, for the strife is hard!
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Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.
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Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed Their snow-white blossoms on my head, With brightest sunshine round me spread Of spring's unclouded weather, In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard-seat! And birds and flowers once more to greet, My last year's friends together.
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Type of the wise who soar but never roam, True to the kindred points of heaven and home.
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Then blame not those who, by the mightiest lever Known to the moral world, Imagination.
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While all the future, for thy purer soul, With sober certainties of love is blest.
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Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.
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The unconquerable pang of despised love.
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