William Wordsworth Quotes
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The light that never was, on sea or land; The consecration, and the Poet's dream.
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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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Two voices are there: one is of the deep; It learns the storm-cloud's thunderous melody, Now roars, now murmurs with the changing sea, Now bird-like pipes, now closes soft in sleep: And one is of an old half-witted sheep Which bleats articulate monotony, And indicates that two and one are three, That grass is green, lakes damp, and mountains steep And, Wordsworth, both are thine.
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Recognizes ever and anon The breeze of Nature stirring in his soul.
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One in whom persuasion and belief Had ripened into faith, and faith become A passionate intuition.
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Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
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A lake carries you into recesses of feeling otherwise impenetrable.
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Pictures deface walls more often than they decorate them.
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Since thy return, through days and weeks Of hope that grew by stealth, How many wan and faded cheeks Have kindled into health! The Old, by thee revived, have said, 'Another year is ours;' And wayworn Wanderers, poorly fed, Have smiled upon thy flowers.
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And he is oft the wisest manWho is not wise at all.
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Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive But to be young was very heaven.
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True beauty dwells in deep retreats, Whose veil is unremoved Till heart with heart in concord beats, And the lover is beloved.
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There is a luxury in self-dispraise; And inward self-disparagement affords To meditative spleen a grateful feast.
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Science appears but what in truth she is, Not as our glory and our absolute boast, But as a succedaneum, and a prop To our infirmity.
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The very flowers are sacred to the poor.
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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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To be young was very heaven!
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Burn all the statutes and their shelves: They stir us up against our kind; And worse, against ourselves.
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Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters.
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I should dread to disfigure the beautiful ideal of the memories of illustrious persons with incongruous features, and to sully the imaginative purity of classical works with gross and trivial recollections.
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But who shall parcel out His intellect by geometric rules, Split like a province into round and square?
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Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, The periwinkle trails its wreath; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes. The birds around me hopped and played, Their thoughts I cannot measure; But the least motion which they made, It seemed a thrill of pleasure. The budding twigs spread out their fan, To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can That there was pleasure there. If this belief from heaven be sent, If such be Nature's holy plan, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?
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There is a comfort in the strength of love; 'Twill make a thing endurable, which else would overset the brain, or break the heart.
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It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration; the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity; The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the sea: Listen! the mighty being is awake, And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thundereverlastingly.