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Spade! Thou art a tool of honor in my hands. I press thee, through a yielding soil, with pride.
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
Hands
Presses
Earth
Press
Thou
Thee
Spade
Tools
Spades
Honor
Yielding
Pride
Tool
Art
Soil
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Choice word and measured phrase above the reach Of ordinary men.
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Books are the best type of the influence of the past.
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Nature never did betray the heart that loved her.
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But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.
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The stars of midnight shall be dear To her and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face.
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Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none / Look up a second time, and, one by one, / You mark them twinkling out with silvery light, / And wonder how they could elude the sight!
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But who is innocent? By grace divine, Not otherwise,O Nature! we are thine.
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Meek Walton's heavenly memory.
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It is the 1st mild day of March. Each minute sweeter than before... there is a blessing in the air.
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What we have loved Others will love And we will teach them how.
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Long as there's a sun that sets, Primroses will have their glory Long as there are violets, They will have a place in story: There's a flower that shall be mine, 'Tis the little Celandine.
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One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.
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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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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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Sweet childish days, that were as long, As twenty days are now.
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Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, Let them live upon their praises.
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Yet tears to human suffering are due And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown Are mourned by man, and not by man alone.
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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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Memories... images and precious thoughts that shall not die and cannot be destroyed.
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One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave.
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