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That to this mountain-daisy's self were known The beauty of its star-shaped shadow, thrown On the smooth surface of this naked stone!
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
Stones
Daisy
Star
Daisies
Shadow
Shaped
Mountain
Smooth
Beauty
Stone
Stars
Thrown
Known
Naked
Self
Surface
More quotes by William Wordsworth
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard... Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.
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The very flowers are sacred to the poor.
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If thou art beautiful, and youth and thought endue thee with all truth-be strong--be worthy of the grace of God.
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Pleasures newly found are sweet When they lie about our feet.
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On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, Musing is solitude
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Me this uncharted freedom tires I feel the weight of chance desires, My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same.
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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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Pictures deface walls more often than they decorate them.
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For mightier far Than strength of nerve or sinew, or the sway Of magic potent over sun and star, Is love, though oft to agony distrest, And though his favourite be feeble woman's breast.
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At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.
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Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.
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One with more of soul in his face than words on his tongue.
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Truths that wake To perish never
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Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.
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We murder to dissect.
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Then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils.
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Those old credulities, to Nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock Of history?
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We live by admiration, hope and love.
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But to a higher mark than song can reach, Rose this pure eloquence.
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And mighty poets in their misery dead.
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