William Wordsworth Quotes
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The sightless Milton, with his hair Around his placid temples curled; And Shakespeare at his side,-a freight, If clay could think and mind were weight, For him who bore the world!
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In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts bring sad thoughts to the mind.
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The earth was all before me. With a heart Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty, I look about; and should the chosen guide Be nothing better than a wandering cloud, I cannot miss my way.
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Bright was the summer's noon when quickening steps Followed each other till a dreary moor Was crossed, a bare ridge clomb, upon whose top Standing alone, as from a rampart's edge, I overlooked the bed of Windermere, Like a vast river, stretching in the sun.
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Great is the glory, for the strife is hard!
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Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretch'd in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
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Write to me frequently & the longest letters possible; never mind whether you have facts or no to communicate; fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
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Prompt to move but firm to wait - knowing things rashly sought are rarely found.
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On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, Musing in solitude, I oft perceive Fair trains of images before me rise, Accompanied by feelings of delight Pure, or with no unpleasing sadness mixed.
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Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry; and these we adore; Plain living and high thinking are no more.
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A great poet ought to a certain degree to rectify men's feelings... to render their feelings more sane, pure and permanent, in short, more consonant to Nature.
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Pictures deface walls more often than they decorate them.
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As high as we have mounted in delight, In our dejection do we sink as low.
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His love was like the liberal air, embracing all, to cheer and bless.
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I listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.
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Nor will I then thy modest grace forget, Chaste Snow-drop, venturous harbinger of Spring, And pensive monitor of fleeting years!
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Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge; it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science
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Oft in my way have I stood still, though but a casual passenger, so much I felt the awfulness of life.
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The education of circumstances is superior to that of tuition.
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Oh, blank confusion! true epitome Of what the mighty City is herself, To thousands upon thousands of her sons, Living amid the same perpetual whirl Of trivial objects, melted and reduced To one identity.
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Oh there is blessing in this gentle breeze, A visitant that while it fans my cheek Doth seem half-conscious of the joy it brings From the green fields, and from yon azure sky. Whate'er its mission, the soft breeze can come To none more grateful than to me; escaped From the vast city, where I long had pined A discontented sojourner: now free, Free as a bird to settle where I will.
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Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.
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The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.
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Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room; And hermits are contented with their cells.