William Wordsworth Quotes
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The wind, a sightless laborer, whistles at his task.
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Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.
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We have within ourselves Enough to fill the present day with joy, And overspread the future years with hope.
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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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Let the moon shine on the in thy solitary walk; and let the misty mountain-winds be free to blow against thee.
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A brotherhood of venerable trees.
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Delight and liberty, the simple creed of childhood.
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Hearing often-times the still, sad music of humanity, nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power to chasten and subdue.
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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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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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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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The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink I heard a voice it said Drink, pretty creature, drink'
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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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Of friends, however humble, scorn not one.
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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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Everything is tedious when one does not read with the feeling of the Author.
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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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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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Nature's old felicities.
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Type of the wise who soar but never roam, True to the kindred points of heaven and home.
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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 budding rose above the rose full blown.