Quote

I've watched you now a full half-hour Self-poised upon that yellow flower And, little Butterfly! Indeed I know not if you sleep or feed. How motionless! - not frozen seas More motionless! and then What joy awaits you, when the breeze Hath found you out among the trees, And calls you forth again!

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
Sleep
Indeed
Butterfly
Hours
Hour
Hath
Half
Sea
Watched
Motionless
Upon
Flower
Feed
Poised
Found
Among
Yellow
Awaits
Littles
Tree
Calls
Seas
Little
Joy
Trees
Breeze
Self
Full
Forth
Frozen

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How is it that you live, and what is it you do?
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Stay, little cheerful Robin! stay, And at my casement sing, Though it should prove a farewell lay And this our parting spring. * * * * * Then, little Bird, this boon confer, Come, and my requiem sing, Nor fail to be the harbinger Of everlasting spring.
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Milton, thou should'st be living at this hour.
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That though the radiance which was once so bright be now forever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, glory in the flower. We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
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A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free.
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A simple child. That lightly draws its breath. And feels its life in every limb. What should it know of death?
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Neither evil tongues, rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all the dreary intercourse of daily life, shall ever prevail against us.
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Heaven lies about us in our infancy.
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Be mild, and cleave to gentle things, thy glory and thy happiness be there.
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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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I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, wherever nature led.
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Father! - to God himself we cannot give a holier name.
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Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.
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A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard... Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.
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Meek Nature's evening comment on the shows That for oblivion take their daily birth From all the fuming vanities of earth.
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That inward eye/ Which is the bliss of solitude.
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The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.
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She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be But she is in her grave, and oh The difference to me!
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The silence that is in the starry sky, / The sleep that is among the lonely hills.
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It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the sea: Listen! the mighty being is awake, And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thundereverlastingly.
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