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The very flowers are sacred to the poor.

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
Flowers
Sacred
Flower
Poor

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He loves not well whose love is bold! I would not have thee come too nigh. The sun's gold would not seem pure gold Unless the sun were in the sky: To take him thence and chain him near Would make his beauty disappear. William Winter, Love's Queen. The unconquerable pang of despised love.
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The streams with softest sound are flowing, The grass you almost hear it growing, You hear it now, if e'er you can.
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Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.
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Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade Of that which once was great is passed away.
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And what if thou, sweet May, hast known Mishap by worm and blight If expectations newly blown Have perished in thy sight If loves and joys, while up they sprung, Were caught as in a snare Such is the lot of all the young, However bright and fair.
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On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, Musing is solitude
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Ah, what a warning for a thoughtless man, Could field or grove, could any spot of earth, Show to his eye an image of the pangs Which it hath witnessed,-render back an echo Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod!
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Death is the quiet haven of us all.
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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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Let Nature be your teacher
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Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?
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For all things are less dreadful than they seem.
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The flower that smells the sweetest is shy and lowly.
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Stop thinking for once in your life!
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In heaven above, And earth below, they best can serve true gladness Who meet most feelingly the calls of sadness.
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Everything is tedious when one does not read with the feeling of the Author.
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She gave me eyes, she gave me ears And humble cares, and delicate fears A heart, the fountain of sweet tears And love and thought and 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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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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A deep distress has humanised my soul.
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