William Wordsworth Quotes
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To be young was very heaven!
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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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... and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
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The flower that smells the sweetest is shy and lowly.
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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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For youthful faults ripe virtues shall atone.
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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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The light that never was, on sea or land; The consecration, and the Poet's dream.
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Pictures deface walls more often than they decorate them.
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Give unto me, made lowly wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice; The confidence of reason give, And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live!
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And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore.
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To character and success, two things, contradictory as they may seem, must go together... humble dependence on God and manly reliance on self.
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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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The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.
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By happy chance we saw A twofold image: on a grassy bank A snow-white ram, and in the crystal flood Another and the same!
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The gods approve The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul.
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Then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils.
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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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'Tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes!
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I have felt a presence that disturbs me with the joy of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime of something far more deeply interfused, whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, and the round ocean, and the living air, and the blue sky, and in the mind of man.
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Careless of books, yet having felt the power Of Nature, by the gentle agency Of natural objects, led me on to feel For passions that were not my own, and think (At random and imperfectly indeed) On man, the heart of man, and human life.
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One with more of soul in his face than words on his tongue.
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But to a higher mark than song can reach, Rose this pure eloquence.
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Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.