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For all things are less dreadful than they seem.

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
Dreadful
Perspective
Seem
Less
Seems
Things

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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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Prompt to move but firm to wait - knowing things rashly sought are rarely found.
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one daffodil is worth a thousand pleasures, then one is too few.
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Oh, be wise, Thou! Instructed that true knowledge leads to love.
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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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Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher.
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Because the good old rule Sufficeth them,-the simple plan, That they should take who have the power, And they should keep who can.
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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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Nature never did betray the heart that loved her.
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Sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart.
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Wild is the music of autumnal winds Amongst the faded woods.
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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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On a fair prospect some have looked, And felt, as I have heard them say, As if the moving time had been A thing as steadfast as the scene On which they gazed themselves away.
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But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.
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Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.
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One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave.
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Recognizes ever and anon The breeze of Nature stirring in his soul.
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Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound.
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Every gift of noble origin Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath.
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Alas! how little can a moment show Of an eye where feeling plays In ten thousand dewy rays: A face o'er which a thousand shadows go!
William Wordsworth