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The Primrose for a veil had spread The largest of her upright leaves And thus for purposes benign, A simple flower deceives.
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
Simple
Largest
Deceiving
Purposes
Primrose
Leaves
Deceives
Spread
Upright
Thus
Benign
Flower
Veil
Purpose
Veils
More quotes by William Wordsworth
In heaven above, And earth below, they best can serve true gladness Who meet most feelingly the calls of sadness.
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Open-mindedness is the harvest of a quiet eye.
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The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.
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Miss not the occasion by the forelock take that subtle power, the never-halting time.
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The intellectual power, through words and things, Went sounding on a dim and perilous way!
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Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher.
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Poetry has never brought me in enough money to buy shoestrings.
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Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, Let them live upon their praises.
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For youthful faults ripe virtues shall atone.
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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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There is creation in the eye.
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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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[Mathematics] is an independent world created out of pure intelligence.
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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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The light that never was, on sea or land The consecration, and the Poet's dream.
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The eye— it cannot choose but see we cannot bid the ear be still our bodies feel, where'er they be, against or with our will.
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Oft in my way have I stood still, though but a casual passenger, so much I felt the awfulness of life.
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Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science
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Sweet childish days, that were as long, As twenty days are now.
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