William Wordsworth

Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.

Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.

Golf is a day spent in a round of strenuous idleness.

Golf is a day spent in a round of strenuous idleness.

Much converse do I find in thee,
Historian of my infancy!
Float near me; do not yet read more

Much converse do I find in thee,
Historian of my infancy!
Float near me; do not yet depart!
Dead times revive in thee:
Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art!
A solemn image to my heart.

Now when the primrose makes a splendid show,
And lilies face the March-winds in full blow,
And read more

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,
Poor Robin is yet flowerless; but how gay
With his red stalks upon this sunny day!

I heard a Stock-dove sing or say
His homely tale, this very day;
His voice was buried read more

I heard a Stock-dove sing or say
His homely tale, this very day;
His voice was buried among trees,
Yet to be come at by the breeze:
He did not cease; but cooed--and cooed:
And somewhat pensively he wooed:
He sang of love, with quiet blending,
Slow to begin, and never ending;
Of serious faith, and inward glee;
That was the song,--the song for me!