William Wordsworth Quotes
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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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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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There is creation in the eye.
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And oft I thought (my fancy was-so strong) That I, at last, a resting-place had found: 'Here: will I dwell,' said I,' my whole life long, Roaming the illimitable waters round; Here will I live, of all but heaven disowned. And end my days upon the peaceful flood - To break my dream the vessel reached its bound; And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.
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The budding rose above the rose full blown.
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The child shall become father to the man.
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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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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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Be mild, and cleave to gentle things, thy glory and thy happiness be there.
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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 Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose.
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Of friends, however humble, scorn not one.
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I travelled among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea; Nor England! did I know till then What love I bore to thee.
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I'm not talking about a "show me other walls of this thing" button, I mean a "stumble" button for wallbase.
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A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard... Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.
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The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.
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These hoards of wealth you can unlock at will.
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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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Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none; / Look up a second time, and, one by one, / You mark them twinkling out with silvery light, / And wonder how they could elude the sight!
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Pleasures newly found are sweet When they lie about our feet.
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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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How many undervalue the power of simplicity ! But it is the real key to the heart.
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Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.
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The Poet, gentle creature as he is, Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times; His fits when he is neither sick nor well, Though no distress be near him but his own Unmanageable thoughts.