A primrose by the river’s brim A yellow rose was to him. And it was nothing more — William Wordsworth
Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; — William Wordsworth
The silence that is in the starry sky, / The sleep that is among the lonely hills. — William Wordsworth
And through the heat of conflict keeps the law In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw. — William Wordsworth
Prompt to move but firm to wait – knowing things rashly sought are rarely found. — William Wordsworth
Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray. — William Wordsworth