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There's something in a flying horse, There's something in a huge balloon.

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
Flying
Horse
Huge
Something
Balloon
Balloons

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A Primrose by a river's brim A yellow primrose was to him And it was something more.
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But who would force the soul tilts with a straw Against a champion cased in adamant
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In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard seat And birds and flowers once more to greet. . . .
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The sunshine is a glorious birth But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.
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The soft blue sky did never melt Into his heart he never felt The witchery of the soft blue sky!
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Earth helped him with the cry of blood.
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Spade! Thou art a tool of honor in my hands. I press thee, through a yielding soil, with pride.
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Open-mindedness is the harvest of a quiet eye.
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Ah, what a warning for a thoughtless man, Could field or grove, could any spot of earth, Show to his eye an image of the pangs Which it hath witnessed,-render back an echo Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod!
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Lady of the Mere, Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.
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I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, wherever nature led.
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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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Spires whose silent finger points to heaven.
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A brotherhood of venerable trees.
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Mark the babe not long accustomed to this breathing world One that hath barely learned to shape a smile, though yet irrational of soul, to grasp with tiny finger - to let fall a tear And, as the heavy cloud of sleep dissolves, To stretch his limbs, becoming, as might seem. The outward functions of intelligent man.
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May books and nature be their early joy!
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A soul so pitiably forlorn, If such do on this earth abide, May season apathy with scorn, May turn indifference to pride And still be not unblest- compared With him who grovels, self-debarred From all that lies within the scope Of holy faith and christian hope Or, shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.
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When from our better selves we have too long been parted by the hurrying world, and droop. Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, how gracious, how benign is solitude.
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one daffodil is worth a thousand pleasures, then one is too few.
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Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
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