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Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

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
Daffodil
Fluttering
Breeze
Dancing
Flower
Pensive

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Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
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To the solid ground Of nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye.
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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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We murder to dissect.
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The intellectual power, through words and things, Went sounding on a dim and perilous way!
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Plain living and high thinking are no more. The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone our peace, our fearful innocence, And pure religion breathing household laws.
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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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Then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils.
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The mysteries that cups of flowers infold And all the gorgeous sights which fairies do behold.
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How many undervalue the power of simplicity ! But it is the real key to the heart.
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Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, Let them live upon their praises.
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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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The softest breeze to fairest flowers gives birth: Think not that Prudence dwells in dark abodes, She scans the future with the eye of gods.
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The common growth of Mother Earth Suffices me,-her tears, her mirth, Her humblest mirth and tears.
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Like thoughts whose very sweetness yielded proof that they were born for immortality.
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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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In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard seat And birds and flowers once more to greet. . . .
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And what if thou, sweet May, hast known Mishap by worm and blight If expectations newly blown Have perished in thy sight If loves and joys, while up they sprung, Were caught as in a snare Such is the lot of all the young, However bright and fair.
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Truth takes no account of centuries.
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