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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
Pensive
Daffodil
Fluttering
Breeze
Dancing
Flower

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All men feel a habitual gratitude, and something of an honorable bigotry, for the objects which have long continued to please them.
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That blessed mood in which the burthen of the mystery, in which the heavy and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world is lightened.
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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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Nor will I then thy modest grace forget, Chaste Snow-drop, venturous harbinger of Spring, And pensive monitor of fleeting years!
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...one interior life in which all beings live with God, themselves are God, existing in the mighty whole, indistinguishable as the cloudless east is from the cloudless west, when all the hemisphere is one cerulean blue.
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Truths that wake To perish never
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And when the stream Which overflowed the soul was passed away, A consciousness remained that it had left Deposited upon the silent shore Of memory images and precious thoughts That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed.
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Minds that have nothing to confer Find little to perceive.
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There's something in a flying horse, There's something in a huge balloon.
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How does the Meadow flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free down to its root, and in that freedom bold.
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For by superior energies more strict affiance in each other faith more firm in their unhallowed principles, the bad have fairly earned a victory over the weak, the vacillating, inconsistent good.
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Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound.
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Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain That has been, and may be again.
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Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity.
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Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray.
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Stern daughter of the voice of God! O Duty! if that name thou love Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring and reprove.
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O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive!
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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.
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Wisdom married to immortal verse.
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But trailing clouds of glory do we come, From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy!.
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