William Wordsworth:
(Cockermouth, 7 April 1770 – Rydal (Westmorland), 23 April 1850). English Romantic poet.
The best portion of a good man’s life is his little, nameless unremembered acts of kindness and love.
Cloud-piercing peak, and trackless heath, instinctive homage pay. Nor wants the dim-lit cave a wreath to honor thee, sweet May!
While from the purpling east departs. The star that led the dawn, blithe flora from her couch upstarts, for May is on the lawn.
Truth takes no account of centuries.
Now when the primrose makes a splendid show, And lilies face the March-winds in full blow, And humbler growths as moved with one desire; Put on, to welcome spring, their best attire…
It is the first mild day of March, the redbreast sings from the tall larch. Then come, my sister! Come, I pray and bring no book for this one day we’ll give to idleness.
There’s joy in the mountains. There’s life in the fountains. Small clouds are sailing. Blue sky prevailing. The rain is over and gone!
