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That kill the bloom before its time, And blanch, without the owner's crime, The most resplendent hair.

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
Bloom
Owner
Owners
Kill
Crime
Hair
Without
Resplendent
Time
Confiding

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Before us lay a painful road, And guidance have I sought in duteous love From Wisdom's heavenly Father. Hence hath flowed Patience, with trust that, whatsoe'er the way Each takes in this high matter, all may move Cheered with the prospect of a brighter day.
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Dreams, books, are each a world.
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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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But who, if he be called upon to face Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined Great issues, good or bad for humankind, Is happy as a lover.
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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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The mind that is wise mourns less for what age takes away than what it leaves behind.
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Free as a bird to settle where I will.
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Now when the primrose makes a splendid show, And lilies face the March-winds in full blow, And humbler growths as moved with one desire Put on, to welcome spring, their best attire, Poor Robin is yet flowerless but how gay With his red stalks upon this sunny day!
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Sweet is the lore which Nature brings Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect. Enough of Science and of Art Close up these barren leaves Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives.
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The eye— it cannot choose but see we cannot bid the ear be still our bodies feel, where'er they be, against or with our will.
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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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Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence.
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The fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.
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Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.
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Sweet is the lore which Nature brings Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: We murder to dissect.
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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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Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close upon the growing boy.
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Nor less I deem that there are Powers Which of themselves our minds impress That we can feed this mind of ours In a wise passiveness
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A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by One after one the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky - I've thought of all by turns, and still I lie Sleepless.
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Either still I find Some imperfection in the chosen theme, Or see of absolute accomplishment Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself, That I recoil and droop, and seek repose In listlessness from vain perplexity, Unprofitably travelling towards the grave.
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