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Primroses, the Spring may love them Summer knows but little of them.

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
Spring
Littles
May
Little
Love
Summer

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We have within ourselves Enough to fill the present day with joy, And overspread the future years with hope.
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To be a Prodigal's favourite,-then, worse truth, A Miser's pensioner,-behold our lot!
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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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Oh, blank confusion! true epitome Of what the mighty City is herself, To thousands upon thousands of her sons, Living amid the same perpetual whirl Of trivial objects, melted and reduced To one identity.
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He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.
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A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free.
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These hoards of wealth you can unlock at will.
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The gods approve The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul.
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Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, We feel that we are greater than we know.
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That best portion of a man's life, his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love.
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Alas! how little can a moment show Of an eye where feeling plays In ten thousand dewy rays: A face o'er which a thousand shadows go!
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Write to me frequently & the longest letters possible never mind whether you have facts or no to communicate fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
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Poetry has never brought me in enough money to buy shoestrings.
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What we have loved Others will love And we will teach them how.
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What know we of the Blest above but that they sing, and that they love?
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Hearing often-times the still, sad music of humanity, nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power to chasten and subdue.
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But hushed be every thought that springs From out the bitterness of things.
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Knowing that Nature never did betray the heart that loved her 'tis her privilege, through all the years of this our life, to lead from joy to joy.
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Oft on the dappled turf at ease I sit, and play with similes, Loose type of things through all degrees.
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Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.
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