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Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, Let them live upon their praises.

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
Pansies
Praises
Daisies
Lilies
Praise
Upon
Live

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Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour Have passed away less happy than the one That by the unwilling ploughshare died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love.
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How does the Meadow flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free down to its root, and in that freedom bold.
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... and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
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Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet
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poetry is the breath and finer spirit of knowledge
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Pleasures newly found are sweet When they lie about our feet.
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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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Prompt to move but firm to wait - knowing things rashly sought are rarely found.
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Of friends, however humble, scorn not one.
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The thought of our past years in me doth breed perpetual benedictions.
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The mind of man is a thousand times more beautiful than the earth on which he dwells.
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Turning, for them who pass, the common dust Of servile opportunity to gold.
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A Primrose by a river's brim A yellow primrose was to him And it was something more.
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And he is oft the wisest manWho is not wise at all.
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Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares!- The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays.
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O Reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle Reader! you would find A tale in everything.
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Great is the glory, for the strife is hard!
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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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Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room And hermits are contented with their cells.
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Those old credulities, to Nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock Of history?
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