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The Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose.

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
Appreciation
Lovely
Rose
Flower
Goes
Comes
Rainbow

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Miss not the occasion by the forelock take that subtle power, the never-halting time.
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Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay, And could not win thee, Sleep, by any stealth: So do not let me wear to-night away. Without thee what is all the morning's wealth? Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
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For oft, when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood they flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude
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Bright flower! whose home is everywhere Bold in maternal nature's care And all the long year through the heir Of joy or sorrow, Methinks that there abides in thee Some concord with humanity, Given to no other flower I see The forest through.
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My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began So is it now I am a man So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! The Child is father of the Man I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
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There is One great society alone on earth: The noble living and the noble dead.
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I'm not talking about a show me other walls of this thing button, I mean a stumble button for wallbase.
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Oh for a single hour of that Dundee Who on that day the word of onset gave!
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Take the sweet poetry of life away, and what remains behind?
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What is pride? A rocket that emulates the stars.
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The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.
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The streams with softest sound are flowing, The grass you almost hear it growing, You hear it now, if e'er you can.
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Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry and these we adore Plain living and high thinking are no more.
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Books! tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it.
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That blessed mood in which the burthen of the mystery, in which the heavy and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world is lightened.
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Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?
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There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream.
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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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A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light
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Neither evil tongues, rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all the dreary intercourse of daily life, shall ever prevail against us.
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