William Wordsworth Quotes
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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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The ocean is a mighty harmonist.
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Therefore am I still a lover of the meadows and the woods, and mountains; and of all that we behold from this green earth.
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Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows Like harmony in music; there is a dark Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles Discordant elements, makes them cling together In one society.
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one daffodil is worth a thousand pleasures, then one is too few.
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He spake of love, such love as spirits feel In worlds whose course is equable and pure; No fears to beat away, no strife to heal,- The past unsighed for, and the future sure.
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Tis said, fantastic ocean doth enfold The likeness of whate'er on land is seen.
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Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns.
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. Not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come.
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To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
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Nature's old felicities.
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One with more of soul in his face than words on his tongue.
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Hope smiled when your nativity was cast, Children of Summer!
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Plain living and high thinking are no more. The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence, And pure religion breathing household laws.
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Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill; The Ploughboy is whooping — anon — anon! There's joy in the mountains: There's life in the fountains; Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing; The rain is over and gone.
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Stay, little cheerful Robin! stay, And at my casement sing, Though it should prove a farewell lay And this our parting spring. * * * * * Then, little Bird, this boon confer, Come, and my requiem sing, Nor fail to be the harbinger Of everlasting spring.
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The mysteries that cups of flowers infold And all the gorgeous sights which fairies do behold.
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Great men have been among us; hands that penn'd And tongues that utter'd wisdom--better none
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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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The Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose.
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O Reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle Reader! you would find A tale in everything.
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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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When from our better selves we have too long been parted by the hurrying world, and droop. Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, how gracious, how benign is solitude.