William Wordsworth Quotes
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What we have loved Others will love And we will teach them how.
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.
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Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.
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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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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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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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Sweet Mercy! to the gates of heaven This minstrel lead, his sins forgiven; The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour, And memory of Earth's bitter leaven Effaced forever.
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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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Be mild, and cleave to gentle things, thy glory and thy happiness be there.
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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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The first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
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In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure, The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, And on the vacant air.
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A mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone.
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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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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 bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.
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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 softest breeze to fairest flowers gives birth: Think not that Prudence dwells in dark abodes, She scans the future with the eye of gods.
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Far from the world I walk, and from all care.
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Pleasures newly found are sweet When they lie about our feet.
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These hoards of wealth you can unlock at will.
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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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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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in the mind of man, A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things.