Why art thou silent Is thy love a plant Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air Of absence withers what was once so fair.
More Quotes from William Wordsworth:
Shalt show us how divine a thing A woman may be made.William Wordsworth
And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore.
William Wordsworth
Many are our joysIn youth, but oh what happiness to liveWhen every hour brings palpable accessOf knowledge, when all knowledge is delight,And sorrow is not there
William Wordsworth
Behold the child among his new-born blisses, A six-years' darling of a pigmy size.
William Wordsworth
Thrice welcome, darling of the spring; Even yet thou art to me; No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery.
William Wordsworth
Me this unchartered freedom tires; I feel the weight of chance-desires; My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same.
William Wordsworth
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