William Wordsworth Quotes
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And what if thou, sweet May, hast known Mishap by worm and blight; If expectations newly blown Have perished in thy sight; If loves and joys, while up they sprung, Were caught as in a snare; Such is the lot of all the young, However bright and fair.
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That kill the bloom before its time, And blanch, without the owner's crime, The most resplendent hair.
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Far from the world I walk, and from all care.
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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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The eye— it cannot choose but see; we cannot bid the ear be still; our bodies feel, where'er they be, against or with our will.
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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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Rapt into still communion that transcends The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, His mind was a thanksgiving to the power That made him; it was blessedness and love!
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Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore of nicely-caluculated less or more.
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A mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone.
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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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A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard... Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.
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Knowledge and increase of enduring joy From the great Nature that exists in works Of mighty Poets.
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One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.
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The harvest of a quiet eye, That broods and sleeps on his own heart.
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The world is too much with us; late and soon, getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours.
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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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Open-mindedness is the harvest of a quiet eye.
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She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and oh The difference to me!
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[Mathematics] is an independent world created out of pure intelligence.
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Earth helped him with the cry of blood.
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But trailing clouds of glory do we come, From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy!.
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Poetry has never brought me in enough money to buy shoestrings.
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The memory of the just survives in Heaven.
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The Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society.