William Wordsworth Quotes
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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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But who would force the soul tilts with a straw Against a champion cased in adamant
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The streams with softest sound are flowing, The grass you almost hear it growing, You hear it now, if e'er you can.
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The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion; the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, An appetite; a feeling and a love that had no need of a remoter charm by thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.
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I, methought, while the sweet breath of heaven Was blowing on my body, felt within A correspondent breeze, that gently moved With quickening virtue, but is now become A tempest, a redundant energy, Vexing its own creation.
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The mind of man is a thousand times more beautiful than the earth on which he dwells.
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Everything is tedious when one does not read with the feeling of the Author.
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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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Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, We feel that we are greater than we know.
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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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A brotherhood of venerable trees.
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The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.
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Rest and be thankful.
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Of friends, however humble, scorn not one.
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She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.
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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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Life is divided into three terms - that which was, which is, and which will be. Let us learn from the past to profit by the present, and from the present, to live better in the future.
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Death is the quiet haven of us all.
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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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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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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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Be mild, and cleave to gentle things, thy glory and thy happiness be there.
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Golf is a day spent in a round of strenuous idleness.
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Type of the wise who soar but never roam, True to the kindred points of heaven and home.