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Nor will I then thy modest grace forget, Chaste Snow-drop, venturous harbinger of Spring, And pensive monitor of fleeting years!

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
Snow
Snowdrops
Spring
Pensive
Grace
Harbinger
Forget
Monitor
Years
Chaste
Fleeting
Modest
Drop

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Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay, And could not win thee, Sleep, by any stealth: So do not let me wear to-night away. Without thee what is all the morning's wealth? Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
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Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn
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Sad fancies do we then affect, In luxury of disrespect To our own prodigal excess Of too familiar happiness.
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No motion has she now, no force she neither hears nor sees rolled around in earth's diurnal course, with rocks, and stones, and trees.
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We murder to dissect.
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Lady of the Mere, Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.
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Or shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.
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A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard... Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.
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True beauty dwells in deep retreats, Whose veil is unremoved Till heart with heart in concord beats, And the lover is beloved.
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While all the future, for thy purer soul, With sober certainties of love is blest.
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A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free.
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Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And, even with something of a mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster child, her inmate man, Forget the glories he hath known And that imperial palace whence he came.
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The human mind is capable of excitement without the application of gross and violent stimulants and he must have a very faint perception of its beauty and dignity who does not know this.
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The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an angel's wing.
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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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We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted.
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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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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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Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.
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And the most difficult of tasks to keep Heights which the soul is competent to gain.
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