William Wordsworth Quotes
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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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Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.
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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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Stern Winter loves a dirge – like sound.
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Let Nature be your teacher
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Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
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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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Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore of nicely-caluculated less or more.
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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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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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Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he That every man in arms should wish to be? It is the generous spirit, who, when brought Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought Upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought: Whose high endeavors are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright: Who, with a natural instinct to discern What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn; And in himself posses his own desire
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In modern business it is not the crook who is to be feared most, it is the honest man who doesn't know what he is doing.
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But who would force the soul tilts with a straw Against a champion cased in adamant
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Golf is a day spent in a round of strenuous idleness.
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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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[Mathematics] is an independent world created out of pure intelligence.
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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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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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The Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society.
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The budding rose above the rose full blown.
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Books! tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it.
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Stern daughter of the voice of God! O Duty! if that name thou love Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring and reprove.
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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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Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.