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A tale in everything.

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
Tale
Tales
Everything

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Lady of the Mere, Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.
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Nor will I then thy modest grace forget, Chaste Snow-drop, venturous harbinger of Spring, And pensive monitor of fleeting years!
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A light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove.
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Burn all the statutes and their shelves: They stir us up against our kind And worse, against ourselves.
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I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills When all at once I saw a crowd A host of golden daffodils Beside the lake beneath the trees Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
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But trailing clouds of glory do we come, From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy!.
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Recognizes ever and anon The breeze of Nature stirring in his soul.
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To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
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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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I, methought, while the sweet breath of heaven Was blowing on my body, felt within A correspondent breeze, that gently moved With quickening virtue, but is now become A tempest, a redundant energy, Vexing its own creation.
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Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher.
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Wisdom is oftentimes nearer when we stoop than when we soar.
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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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I've watched you now a full half-hour Self-poised upon that yellow flower And, little Butterfly! Indeed I know not if you sleep or feed. How motionless! - not frozen seas More motionless! and then What joy awaits you, when the breeze Hath found you out among the trees, And calls you forth again!
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One impulse from a vernal wood
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For youthful faults ripe virtues shall atone.
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She was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight, A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament Her eyes as stars of twilight fair, Like twilights too her dusky hair, But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn.
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The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone
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A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays And confident tomorrows.
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Golf is a day spent in a round of strenuous idleness.
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