William Wordsworth Quotes

For all things are less dreadful than they seem.

I have felt a presence that disturbs me with the joy of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime of something far more deeply interfused, whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, and the round ocean, and the living air, and the blue sky, and in the mind of man.

A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light

A lawyer art thou? Draw not nigh! Go, carry to some fitter place The keenness of that practised eye, The hardness of that sallow face.

To the solid ground Of nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye.

My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man.

Open-mindedness is the harvest of a quiet eye.

The first cuckoo's melancholy cry.

Sweet Mercy! to the gates of heaven This minstrel lead, his sins forgiven; The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour, And memory of Earth's bitter leaven Effaced forever.

poetry is the breath and finer spirit of knowledge

For by superior energies; more strict affiance in each other; faith more firm in their unhallowed principles, the bad have fairly earned a victory over the weak, the vacillating, inconsistent good.

Like thoughts whose very sweetness yielded proof that they were born for immortality.

Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.

Write to me frequently & the longest letters possible; never mind whether you have facts or no to communicate; fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.

Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge - it is as immortal as the heart of man.

I'll teach my boy the sweetest things; I'll teach him how the owlet sings.

Thought and theory must precede all action, that moves to salutary purposes. Yet action is nobler in itself than either thought or theory.

In heaven above, And earth below, they best can serve true gladness Who meet most feelingly the calls of sadness.

One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.

A genial hearth, a hospitable board, and a refined rusticity.

The memory of the just survives in Heaven.

Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind--But how could I forget thee?

The light that never was, on sea or land; The consecration, and the Poet's dream.

Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence.

Mark the babe not long accustomed to this breathing world; One that hath barely learned to shape a smile, though yet irrational of soul, to grasp with tiny finger - to let fall a tear; And, as the heavy cloud of sleep dissolves, To stretch his limbs, becoming, as might seem. The outward functions of intelligent man.

The clouds that gather round the setting sun do take a sober colouring from an eye that hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, to me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

But hushed be every thought that springs From out the bitterness of things.

Type of the wise who soar but never roam, True to the kindred points of heaven and home.

That mighty orb of song, The divine Milton.

The Eagle, he was lord above

Life is divided into three terms - that which was, which is, and which will be. Let us learn from the past to profit by the present, and from the present, to live better in the future.

But who shall parcel out His intellect by geometric rules, Split like a province into round and square?

Thou unassuming common-place of Nature, with that homely face.

... and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.

Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive But to be young was very heaven.

Because the good old rule Sufficeth them,-the simple plan, That they should take who have the power, And they should keep who can.

Stop thinking for once in your life!

We Poets in our youth begin in gladness; But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.

Worse than idle is compassion if it ends in tears and sighs.

The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an angel's wing.

The Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society.

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.

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.

Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither.

I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills When all at once I saw a crowd A host of golden daffodils Beside the lake beneath the trees Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.

The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.

Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.