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Oft on the dappled turf at ease I sit, and play with similes, Loose type of things through all degrees.

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
Play
Similes
Things
Turf
Simile
Loose
Ease
Degrees
Type
Language
Dappled

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Let Nature be your teacher
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This solitary Tree! a living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay Of form and aspect too magnificent To be destroyed.
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Who, doomed to go in company with Pain And Fear and Bloodshed,-miserable train!- Turns his necessity to glorious gain.
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I should dread to disfigure the beautiful ideal of the memories of illustrious persons with incongruous features, and to sully the imaginative purity of classical works with gross and trivial recollections.
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Often have I sighed to measure By myself a lonely pleasure,- Sighed to think I read a book, Only read, perhaps, by me.
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Plain living and high thinking are no more.
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A soul so pitiably forlorn, If such do on this earth abide, May season apathy with scorn, May turn indifference to pride And still be not unblest- compared With him who grovels, self-debarred From all that lies within the scope Of holy faith and christian hope Or, shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.
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The child is father of the man.
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Laying out grounds may be considered a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.
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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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How many undervalue the power of simplicity ! But it is the real key to the heart.
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Laying out grounds... may be considered as a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.... it is to assist Nature in moving the affections... the affections of those who have the deepest perception of the beauty of Nature.
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And now I see with eye serene, The very pulse of the machine. A being breathing thoughtful breaths, A traveler between life and death.
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O dearer far than light and life are dear.
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Open-mindedness is the harvest of a quiet eye.
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And when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet whence he blew Soul-animating strains,-alas! too few.
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Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay, And could not win thee, Sleep, by any stealth: So do not let me wear to-night away. Without thee what is all the morning's wealth? Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
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Shalt show us how divine a thing A woman may be made.
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Sweet childish days, that were as long, As twenty days are now.
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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!
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