William Wordsworth Quotes
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Far from the world I walk, and from all care.
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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.
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.
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The child shall become father to the man.
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A brotherhood of venerable trees.
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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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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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But who would force the soul tilts with a straw Against a champion cased in adamant
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The child is father of the man: And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
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Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
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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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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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Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.
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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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Pleasures newly found are sweet When they lie about our feet.
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The Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society.
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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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Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower.
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[Mathematics] is an independent world created out of pure intelligence.
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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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We have within ourselves Enough to fill the present day with joy, And overspread the future years with hope.
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Rest and be thankful.
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My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard.
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Take the sweet poetry of life away, and what remains behind?