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A Primrose by a river's brim A yellow primrose was to him And it was something more.

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
Rivers
Rose
Flower
Something
Primrose
Brim
Yellow
River

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one daffodil is worth a thousand pleasures, then one is too few.
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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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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.
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The intellectual power, through words and things, Went sounding on a dim and perilous way!
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Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.
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Small service is true service, while it lasts.
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Sweet childish days, that were as long, As twenty days are now.
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Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.
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We live by Admiration, Hope, and Love And, even as these are well and wisely fixed, In dignity of being we ascend.
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Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters.
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We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted.
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Babylon, Learned and wise, hath perished utterly, Nor leaves her speech one word to aid the sigh That would lament her.
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While all the future, for thy purer soul, With sober certainties of love is blest.
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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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In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease and, of its joy secure, The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, And on the vacant air.
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