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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
Sacred
Flower
Poor
Flowers

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one daffodil is worth a thousand pleasures, then one is too few.
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And when the stream Which overflowed the soul was passed away, A consciousness remained that it had left Deposited upon the silent shore Of memory images and precious thoughts That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed.
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That kill the bloom before its time, And blanch, without the owner's crime, The most resplendent hair.
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The mind that is wise mourns less for what age takes away than what it leaves behind.
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The softest breeze to fairest flowers gives birth: Think not that Prudence dwells in dark abodes, She scans the future with the eye of gods.
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The fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.
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Mark the babe not long accustomed to this breathing world One that hath barely learned to shape a smile, though yet irrational of soul, to grasp with tiny finger - to let fall a tear And, as the heavy cloud of sleep dissolves, To stretch his limbs, becoming, as might seem. The outward functions of intelligent man.
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One impulse from a vernal wood
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The best of what we do and are, Just God, forgive!
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And suddenly all your troubles melt away, all your worries are gone, and it is for no reason other than the look in your partner's eyes. Yes, sometimes life and love really is that simple.
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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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Small service is true service, while it lasts.
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A lawyer art thou? Draw not nigh! Go, carry to some fitter place The keenness of that practised eye, The hardness of that sallow face.
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Tis not in battles that from youth we train The Governor who must be wise and good, And temper with the sternness of the brain Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood.
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For oft, when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood they flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude
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Therefore am I still a lover of the meadows and the woods, and mountains and of all that we behold from this green earth.
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Monastic brotherhood, upon rock Aerial.
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Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters.
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