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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
Brim
Yellow
River
Rivers
Rose
Flower
Something
Primrose
More quotes by William Wordsworth
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?
William Wordsworth
Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
William Wordsworth
O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive!
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The thought of our past years in me doth breed perpetual benedictions.
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That best portion of a man's life, his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love.
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The wind, a sightless laborer, whistles at his task.
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Every great and original writer, in proportion as he is great and original, must himself create the taste by which he is to be relished.
William Wordsworth
There is creation in the eye.
William Wordsworth
Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.
William Wordsworth
The Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose.
William Wordsworth
Open-mindedness is the harvest of a quiet eye.
William Wordsworth
Shalt show us how divine a thing A woman may be made.
William Wordsworth
Great God! I'd rather be a Pagan.
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Either still I find Some imperfection in the chosen theme, Or see of absolute accomplishment Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself, That I recoil and droop, and seek repose In listlessness from vain perplexity, Unprofitably travelling towards the grave.
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Huge and mighty forms that do not live like living men, moved slowly through the mind by day and were trouble to my dreams.
William Wordsworth
He who feels contempt for any living thing hath faculties that he hath never used, and thought with him is in its infancy.
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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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We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
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Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet
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The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.
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