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The budding rose above the rose full blown.

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
Budding
Blown
Rose
Full

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Poetry has never brought me in enough money to buy shoestrings.
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One of those heavenly days that cannot die.
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The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink I heard a voice it said Drink, pretty creature, drink'
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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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Oh, be wise, Thou! Instructed that true knowledge leads to love.
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The tears into his eyes were brought, And thanks and praises seemed to run So fast out of his heart, I thought They never would have done. -I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning Alas! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left me mourning.
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Wisdom and spirit of the Universe!
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We must be free or die, who speak the tongue That Shakespeare spake the faith and morals hold Which Milton held.
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The thought of our past years in me doth breed perpetual benedictions.
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We bow our heads before Thee, and we laud, And magnify thy name Almighty God! But man is thy most awful instrument, In working out a pure intent.
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A soul so pitiably forlorn, If such do on this earth abide, May season apathy with scorn, May turn indifference to pride And still be not unblest- compared With him who grovels, self-debarred From all that lies within the scope Of holy faith and christian hope Or, shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.
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one daffodil is worth a thousand pleasures, then one is too few.
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Meek Nature's evening comment on the shows That for oblivion take their daily birth From all the fuming vanities of earth.
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But who would force the soul tilts with a straw Against a champion cased in adamant
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And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore.
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I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough, along the mountain-side. By our own spirits we are deified We Poets in our youth begin in gladness, But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
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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.
William Wordsworth
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She seemed a thing that could not feel the touch of earthly years.
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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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