William Wordsworth Quotes
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The childhood of today is the manhood of tomorrow
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Nature's old felicities.
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Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns.
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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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To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
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Hope smiled when your nativity was cast, Children of Summer!
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Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep/ Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind.
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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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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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The Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose.
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I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride; Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough, along the mountain-side. By our own spirits we are deified; We Poets in our youth begin in gladness, But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
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Be mild, and cleave to gentle things, thy glory and thy happiness be there.
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Wisdom and Spirit of the universe! Thou soul, that art the eternity of thought, And giv'st to forms and images a breath And everlasting motion.
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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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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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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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Great men have been among us; hands that penn'd And tongues that utter'd wisdom--better none
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In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; And passing even into my purer mind, With tranquil restoration: - feelings, too, Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps, As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremembered acts Of kindness and of love.
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There is creation in the eye.
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We bow our heads before Thee, and we laud, And magnify thy name Almighty God! But man is thy most awful instrument, In working out a pure intent.
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The mysteries that cups of flowers infold And all the gorgeous sights which fairies do behold.
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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.
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How is it that you live, and what is it you do?
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Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.