Quote

Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour Have passed away less happy than the one That by the unwilling ploughshare died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love.

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
Less
Forth
Daisies
Natural
Hour
Nest
Away
Died
Nests
Love
Flower
Unwilling
Prove
Tender
Myriads
Poetry
Charm
Lark
Hours
Passed
Larks
Happy
Near
Shone

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Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge - it is as immortal as the heart of man.
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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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The childhood of today is the manhood of tomorrow
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Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn
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Often have I sighed to measure By myself a lonely pleasure,- Sighed to think I read a book, Only read, perhaps, by me.
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No motion has she now, no force she neither hears nor sees rolled around in earth's diurnal course, with rocks, and stones, and trees.
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He loves not well whose love is bold! I would not have thee come too nigh. The sun's gold would not seem pure gold Unless the sun were in the sky: To take him thence and chain him near Would make his beauty disappear. William Winter, Love's Queen. The unconquerable pang of despised love.
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I travelled among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea Nor England! did I know till then What love I bore to thee.
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my brain Worked with a dim and undetermined sense Of unknown modes of being o'er my thoughts There hung a darkness, call it solitude Or blank desertion.
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Shalt show us how divine a thing A woman may be made.
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For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity.
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar.
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Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.
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Monastic brotherhood, upon rock Aerial.
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O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?
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Books are the best type of the influence of the past.
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Habit rules the unreflecting herd.
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The silence that is in the starry sky, / The sleep that is among the lonely hills.
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A few strong instincts and a few plain rules.
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