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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
Comes
Rainbow
Appreciation
Lovely
Rose
Flower
Goes

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When his veering gait And every motion of his starry train Seem governed by a strain Of music, audible to him alone.
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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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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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Choice word and measured phrase above the reach Of ordinary men.
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The monumental pomp of age Was with this goodly personage A stature undepressed in size, Unbent, which rather seemed to rise In open victory o'er the weight Of seventy years, to loftier height.
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Life is divided into three terms - that which was, which is, and which will be. Let us learn from the past to profit by the present, and from the present, to live better in the future.
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Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet
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Happier of happy though I be, like them I cannot take possession of the sky, mount with a thoughtless impulse, and wheel there, one of a mighty multitude whose way and motion is a harmony and dance magnificent.
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A mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone.
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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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Heaven lies about us in our infancy.
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Science appears but what in truth she is, Not as our glory and our absolute boast, But as a succedaneum, and a prop To our infirmity.
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There is creation in the eye.
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Hearing often-times the still, sad music of humanity, nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power to chasten and subdue.
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Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill The Ploughboy is whooping — anon — anon! There's joy in the mountains: There's life in the fountains Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing The rain is over and gone.
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Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.
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Serene will be our days, and bright and happy will our nature be, when love is an unerring light, and joy its own security.
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