Spade with which Wilkinson hath tilled his lands, And shaped these pleasant walks by Emont's side, Thou art a tool of honor in my hands, I press thee, through a yielding soil, with pride.
More Quotes from William Wordsworth:
Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room; And hermits are contented with their cells.William Wordsworth
We feel that we are greater than we know.
William Wordsworth
Look for the stars, you'll say that there are noneLook up a second time, and, one by one,You mark them twinkling out with silvery light,And wonder how they could elude the sight
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And doth, with his eternal motion makeA sound like thunder - everlasting
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They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude.
William Wordsworth
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