William Wordsworth Quotes
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One solace yet remains for us who came Into this world in days when story lacked Severe research, that in our hearts we know How, for exciting youth's heroic flame, Assent is power, belief the soul of fact.
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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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But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.
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The flower that smells the sweetest is shy and lowly.
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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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Hope smiled when your nativity was cast, Children of Summer!
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Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect. Enough of Science and of Art; Close up these barren leaves; Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives.
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A few strong instincts and a few plain rules.
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Not in Utopia, -- subterranean fields, --Or some secreted island, Heaven knows whereBut in the very world, which is the worldOf all of us, -- the place where in the endWe find our happiness, or not at all
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The wind, a sightless laborer, whistles at his task.
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These hoards of wealth you can unlock at will.
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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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How many undervalue the power of simplicity ! But it is the real key to the heart.
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"What is good for a bootless bene?" With these dark words begins my tale; And their meaning is, Whence can comfort spring When prayer is of no avail?
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one daffodil is worth a thousand pleasures, then one is too few.
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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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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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Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep/ Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind.
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The very flowers are sacred to the poor.
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Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind--But how could I forget thee?
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This City now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie Open unto the fields and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
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Ah, what a warning for a thoughtless man, Could field or grove, could any spot of earth, Show to his eye an image of the pangs Which it hath witnessed,-render back an echo Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod!
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By all means sometimes be alone; salute thyself; see what thy soul doth wear; dare to look in thy chest; and tumble up and down what thou findest there.
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Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.