William Wordsworth Quotes
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Or shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.
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For youthful faults ripe virtues shall atone.
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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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The childhood of today is the manhood of tomorrow
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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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How does the Meadow flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free down to its root, and in that freedom bold.
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How is it that you live, and what is it you do?
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Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive But to be young was very heaven.
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Up! up! my friend, and quit your books, Or surely you 'll grow double! Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks! Why all this toil and trouble?
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'Tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes!
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We live by Admiration, Hope, and Love; And, even as these are well and wisely fixed, In dignity of being we ascend.
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To be young was very heaven!
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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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Wisdom is oftentimes nearer when we stoop than when we soar.
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But to a higher mark than song can reach, Rose this pure eloquence.
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But He is risen, a later star of dawn.
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He who feels contempt for any living thing hath faculties that he hath never used, and thought with him is in its infancy.
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The flower that smells the sweetest is shy and lowly.
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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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We murder to dissect.
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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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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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A few strong instincts and a few plain rules.