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We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted.

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
Like
Daisies
Pleasant
Thee
Meet
Thought
Wanted

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As in the eye of Nature he has lived, So in the eye of Nature let him die!
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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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Great men have been among us hands that penn'd And tongues that utter'd wisdom--better none
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If thou art beautiful, and youth and thought endue thee with all truth-be strong--be worthy of the grace of God.
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O Reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle Reader! you would find A tale in everything.
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In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease and, of its joy secure, The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, And on the vacant air.
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The gods approve The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul.
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The child shall become father to the man.
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Then blame not those who, by the mightiest lever Known to the moral world, Imagination.
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His high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright.
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How is it that you live, and what is it you do?
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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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The Primrose for a veil had spread The largest of her upright leaves And thus for purposes benign, A simple flower deceives.
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The tears into his eyes were brought, And thanks and praises seemed to run So fast out of his heart, I thought They never would have done. -I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning Alas! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left me mourning.
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One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave.
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Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
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Come grow old with me. The best is yet to be.
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A genial hearth, a hospitable board, and a refined rusticity.
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She gave me eyes, she gave me ears And humble cares, and delicate fears A heart, the fountain of sweet tears And love and thought and joy.
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Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
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