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Prompt to move but firm to wait - knowing things rashly sought are rarely found.

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
Wait
Move
Knowing
Rashly
Waiting
Prompt
Moving
Prompts
Found
Sought
Things
Rarely
Firm

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The budding rose above the rose full blown.
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From the body of one guilty deed a thousand ghostly fears and haunting thoughts proceed.
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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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Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee! . . . . . . Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart: So didst thou travel on life's common way In cheerful godliness.
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Earth has not anything to show more fair.
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O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive!
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In spite of difference of soil and climate, of language and manners, of laws and customs-in spite of things silently gone out of mind, and things violently destroyed, the Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society, as it is spread over the whole earth, and over all time.
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Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour Have passed away less happy than the one That by the unwilling ploughshare died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love.
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Give unto me, made lowly wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice The confidence of reason give, And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live!
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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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What is pride? A rocket that emulates the stars.
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True beauty dwells in deep retreats, Whose veil is unremoved Till heart with heart in concord beats, And the lover is beloved.
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And mighty poets in their misery dead.
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Nor less I deem that there are Powers Which of themselves our minds impress That we can feed this mind of ours In a wise passiveness
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A tale in everything.
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Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room And hermits are contented with their cells.
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Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.
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We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
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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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Then blame not those who, by the mightiest lever Known to the moral world, Imagination.
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