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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
Type
Language
Dappled
Play
Similes
Things
Turf
Simile
Loose
Ease
Degrees
More quotes by William Wordsworth
Thou unassuming common-place of Nature, with that homely face.
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Plain living and high thinking are no more.
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But who is innocent? By grace divine, Not otherwise,O Nature! we are thine.
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The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.
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Action is transitory, a step, a blow, The motion of a muscle, this way or that, 'Tis done--And in the after-vacancy, We wonder at ourselves, like men betrayed.
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There is a comfort in the strength of love 'Twill make a thing endurable, which else would overset the brain, or break the heart.
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To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
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O dearer far than light and life are dear.
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By all means sometimes be alone salute thyself see what thy soul doth wear dare to look in thy chest and tumble up and down what thou findest there.
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There is creation in the eye.
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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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And I am happy when I sing.
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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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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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Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room And hermits are contented with their cells.
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Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.
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A few strong instincts and a few plain rules.
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Be mild, and cleave to gentle things, thy glory and thy happiness be there.
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Mark the babe not long accustomed to this breathing world One that hath barely learned to shape a smile, though yet irrational of soul, to grasp with tiny finger - to let fall a tear And, as the heavy cloud of sleep dissolves, To stretch his limbs, becoming, as might seem. The outward functions of intelligent man.
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One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave.
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