William Wordsworth Quotes
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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.
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These hoards of wealth you can unlock at will.
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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 binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society.
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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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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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Stern Winter loves a dirge – like sound.
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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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Type of the wise who soar but never roam, True to the kindred points of heaven and home.
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Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.
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True dignity abides with him alone Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, Can still suspect, and still revere himself, In lowliness of heart.
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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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But who would force the soul tilts with a straw Against a champion cased in adamant
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With an eye made quiet by the power of harmony, and the deep power of joy, we see into the life of things.
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Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
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I am already kindly disposed towards you. My friendship it is not in my power to give: this is a gift which no man can make, it is not in our own power: a sound and healthy friendship is the growth of time and circumstance, it will spring up and thrive like a wildflower when these favour, and when they do not, it is in vain to look for it.
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Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow.
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A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light
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But hushed be every thought that springs From out the bitterness of things.
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For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity.
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Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion.
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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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Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore of nicely-caluculated less or more.