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Updated: June 21, 2025
Their hungry swarms the peaceful vale shall fright, Still fierce to threaten, still afraid to fight; The teeming year's whole product shall devour, Insatiate pluck the fruit, and crop the flow'r; Shall glutton on the industrious peasants' spoil, Rob without fear, and fatten without toil; Then o'er the world shall discord stretch her wings; Kings change their laws, and kingdoms change their kings.
"A wasted body, heart enpierced to core, * And tears that down my poor cheeks pour and pour: And lover cure of access; but, but still * Naught save what's fair can come from fairest flow'r: O cousin mine thou fill'st my soul with pate, * And from these tears mine eyelids ache full sore!"
The tow'ring lark, on rising wing, Warbles to you, your praise does sing; He cuts the yielding air, and flies To heav'n, to type your future joys. The purple violet, damask rose, Each, to delight your senses, blows. The lilies ope', as you appear; And all the beauties of the year Diffuse their odours at your feet, Who give to ev'ry flow'r its sweet.
With treacherous aim the god his arrow drew, Which she with icy coldness did repel; Rebounding thence with feathery speed it flew, Till on this lonely flow'r at last it fell. Heart's-ease no more the wandering shepherds found, No more the nymphs its snowy form possess; Its white now chang'd to purple by Love's wound, Heart's-ease no more, 'tis "Love in Idleness."
A double-minded man most surely lacketh Stability in all he undertaketh. Let ev'ry brother of a low degree Rejoice in that he is advanc'd, but he That's rich in being made low, for he shall pass Away, as doth the flow'r of the grass.
"Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, Thou's met me in an evil hour; For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem. To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Thou bonnie gem. "Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, The bonnie lark, companion meet, Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, Wi' spreckl'd breast, When upward springing, blythe, to greet The purpling east.
Into the Milk her flow'r she gently throws, As valets now wou'd powder tender beaus: The liquid forms in hasty mass unite, Both equally delicious as they're white. In mining dish the hasty mass is thrown, And seems to want no graces but its own. Yet still the housewife brings in fresh supplies, To gratify the taste, and please the eyes.
"Always and everywhere He is so," Kalinin proudly rejoined. "But do you also know what an old woman of Smolensk used to sing concerning Him?" "I do not." Halting, my strange traveller chanted in a feignedly senile and tremulous voice, as he beat time with his foot: In the heavens a flow'r doth blow, It is the Son of God. From it all our joys do flow, It is the Son of God.
Peter, the gardener, would watch them lazily, as he leaned upon his hoe, and mutter beneath his breath, "Dat dut wuz dut, en de dut er de flow'r baids warn' no better'n de dut er de co'n fiel'." Betty would laugh and shake her head as she planted her square of pansies. She was working feverishly to overcome her longing for the sight of Dan, and her growing dread of his return.
The meanest flow'r that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. It is this power of habitual sentiment, or of transferring the interest of our conscious existence to whatever gently solicits attention, and is a link in the chain of association without rousing our passions or hurting our pride, that is the striking feature in Mr. Wordsworth's mind and poetry.
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