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The streams with softest sound are flowing, The grass you almost hear it growing, You hear it now, if e'er you can.
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
Streams
Grass
Hear
Growing
Almost
Sound
Nature
Softest
Flowing
More quotes by William Wordsworth
That best portion of a man's life, his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love.
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Enough, if something from our hands have power To live, and act, and serve the future hour And if, as toward the silent tomb we go, Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, We feel that we are greater than we know.
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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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Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind--But how could I forget thee?
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And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.
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But He is risen, a later star of dawn.
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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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The Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose.
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The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.
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While all the future, for thy purer soul, With sober certainties of love is blest.
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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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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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For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity.
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Knowledge and increase of enduring joy From the great Nature that exists in works Of mighty Poets.
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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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Dreams, books, are each a world and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow.
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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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Far from the world I walk, and from all care.
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. Not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come.
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To be young was very heaven!
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