Quote

With little here to do or see Of things that in the great world be, Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee For thou art worthy, Thou unassuming commonplace Of Nature, with that homely face, And yet with something of a grace Which love makes for thee!

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
Great
Talk
Homely
Something
Face
Daisies
Faces
Commonplace
Things
Makes
Thou
Love
Art
Thee
World
Nature
Worthy
Littles
Sweet
Unassuming
Little
Grace
Daisy

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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.
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And when the stream Which overflowed the soul was passed away, A consciousness remained that it had left Deposited upon the silent shore Of memory images and precious thoughts That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed.
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A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by One after one the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky - I've thought of all by turns, and still I lie Sleepless.
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The budding rose above the rose full blown.
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Either still I find Some imperfection in the chosen theme, Or see of absolute accomplishment Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself, That I recoil and droop, and seek repose In listlessness from vain perplexity, Unprofitably travelling towards the grave.
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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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I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, wherever nature led.
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Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion.
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O dearer far than light and life are dear.
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And the most difficult of tasks to keep Heights which the soul is competent to gain.
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The intellectual power, through words and things, Went sounding on a dim and perilous way!
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We murder to dissect.
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The thought of our past years in me doth breed perpetual benedictions.
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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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There is creation in the eye.
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Hope smiled when your nativity was cast, Children of Summer!
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This City now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie Open unto the fields and to the sky All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
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Those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings Blank misgivings of a Creature Moving about in worlds not realised, High instincts before which our mortal Nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised
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But who shall parcel out His intellect by geometric rules, Split like a province into round and square?
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The child is father of the man.
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