Quotes by William Wordsworth
Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.
The best portion of a good man's life is his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love.
When from our better selves we have too long been parted by the hurrying world, and droop. Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, how gracious, how benign is solitude.
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.
Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.
Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher.
The child is father of the man.
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity.
Soft is the music that would charm for ever;The flower of sweetest smell is shy and lowly.
When a damp/ Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand/ The thing became a trumpet; whence he blew/ Soul-animating strains - alas, too few!
Small circles glittering idly in the moon,/ Until they melted all into one track/ Of sparkling light.
What is a Poet? "He is a man speaking to men: a man, it is true, endued with more lively sensibility, more enthusiasm and tenderness, who has a greater knowledge of human nature, and a more comprehensive soul, than are supposed to be common among mankind; a man pleased with his own passions and volitions, and who rejoices more than other men in the spirit of life that is in him; delighting to contemplate similar volitions and passions as manifested in the goings-on of the universe, and habitually impelled to create them where he does not find them."
Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room;And hermits are contented with their cells.
Stern winter loves a dirge-like sound.
She was a phantom of delight When first she gleam'd upon my sight A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament.
Oh, be wiser thou!Instructed that true knowledge leads to love.
The Solitary answered: Such a Form Full well I recollect. We often crossed Each other's path; but, as the Intruder seemed Fondly to prize the silence which he kept, And I as willingly did cherish mine, We met, and passed, like shadows. I have heard, From my good Host, that being crazed in brain By unrequited love, he scaled the rocks, Dived into caves, and pierced the matted woods, In hope to find some virtuous herb of power To cure his malady!
The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.
One of those heavenly days that cannot die.
One great Society alone on Earth, The noble Living, and the noble Dead.
And mighty poets in their misery dead.
'But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven!'...
A simple child, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death?
Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the land Shall not go from us, and it shall be free;...
