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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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Oft on the dappled turf at ease I sit, and play with similes, Loose type of things through all degrees.
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All men feel a habitual gratitude, and something of an honorable bigotry, for the objects which have long continued to please them.
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One solace yet remains for us who came Into this world in days when story lacked Severe research, that in our hearts we know How, for exciting youth's heroic flame, Assent is power, belief the soul of fact.
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She seemed a thing that could not feel the touch of earthly years.
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Bright flower! whose home is everywhere Bold in maternal nature's care And all the long year through the heir Of joy or sorrow, Methinks that there abides in thee Some concord with humanity, Given to no other flower I see The forest through.
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The best of what we do and are, Just God, forgive!
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Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect
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Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.
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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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Sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart.
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Society became my glittering bride, And airy hopes my children.
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...one interior life in which all beings live with God, themselves are God, existing in the mighty whole, indistinguishable as the cloudless east is from the cloudless west, when all the hemisphere is one cerulean blue.
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When men change swords for ledgers, and desert The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed I had, my Country--am I to be blamed?
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I should dread to disfigure the beautiful ideal of the memories of illustrious persons with incongruous features, and to sully the imaginative purity of classical works with gross and trivial recollections.
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A power is passing from the earth.
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