William Wordsworth Quotes
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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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Imagination, which in truth Is but another name for absolute power And clearest insight, amplitude of mind, And reason, in her most exalted mood.
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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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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 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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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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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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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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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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A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard... Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.
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A mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone.
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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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Open-mindedness is the harvest of a quiet eye.
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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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Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore of nicely-caluculated less or more.
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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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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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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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[Mathematics] is an independent world created out of pure intelligence.
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Poetry has never brought me in enough money to buy shoestrings.
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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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She gave me eyes, she gave me ears; And humble cares, and delicate fears; A heart, the fountain of sweet tears; And love and thought and joy.
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Earth helped him with the cry of blood.