That kill the bloom before its time, And blanch, without the owner's crime, The most resplendent hair.
Interpretation
The quote reflects on the premature ending of potential and beauty due to external circumstances beyond one's control.
In this quote, Wordsworth laments the loss of beauty and life that can occur due to factors outside an individual's influence. The imagery suggests that even the most vibrant and promising aspects of existence can be marred or diminished before their full potential is realized, invoking a sense of sadness for unfulfilled promise and the inevitability of loss.
In practice
Using this quote in a speech about the fragility of life and the importance of cherishing moments of beauty.
For mightier far_x000D_ _x000D_ Than strength of nerve or sinew, or the sway_x000D_ _x000D_ Of magic potent over sun and star,_x000D_ _x000D_ Is love, though oft to agony distrest,_x000D_ _x000D_ And though his favourite be feeble woman's breast.
By all means sometimes be alone; salute thyself; see what thy soul doth wear; dare to look in thy chest; and tumble up and down what thou findest there.
There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,_x000D_ _x000D_ The earth, and every common sight,_x000D_ _x000D_ To me did seem_x000D_ _x000D_ Apparelled in celestial light,_x000D_ _x000D_ The glory and the freshness of a dream.
Books are yours, Within whose silent chambers treasure lies Preserved from age to age; more precious far Than that accumulated store of gold And orient gems, which, for a day of need, The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs. These hoards of truth you can unlock at will.
The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune.
Shalt show us how divine a thing A woman may be made.
You don't write a song to sit there on a page. You write it to sing it.
The most despairing songs are the most beautiful, and I know some immortal ones that are pure tears.
I increasingly fear that nothing good can come of almost any adaptation, and obviously that's sweeping. There are a couple of adaptations that are perhaps as good or better than the original work. But the vast majority of them are pointless.
If you don't know what to play, play nothing.
My mirror probes down to the heart. I write words on the forehead and around the corners of the mouth. My human faces are truer than the real ones.
The most important thing to realize is that everyone is capable of telling a story.
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