Quotes by William Wordsworth
What though the radiance which was once so bright Be not forever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower Strength in what remains behind, In the primal sympathy Which having been must ever be, In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of Human suffering, In the faith that looks through death In years that bring philophic mind.
Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks;Why all this toil and trouble?
More like a man/ Flying from something that he dreads than one/ Who sought the thing he loved.
Wisdom is ofttimes nearer when we stoop Than when we soar.
I listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.
My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky.
Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion
Surprised by joy -- impatient as the windI wished to share the transport.
As high as we have mounted in delight,In our dejection do we sink as low.
A slumber did my spirit seal;/ I had no human fears:/ She seemed a thing that could not feel/ The touch of earthly years. No motion has she now, no force;/ She neither hears nor sees;/ Rolled round in earth's diurnal course. . .
the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
Nature never did betray The heart that loved her.
The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benedictions.
O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live,
Four years and thirty, told this very week,Have I been now a sojourner on earth,And yet the morning gladness is not goneWhich then was in my mind.
A poet who has not produced a good poem before he is twenty-five, we may conclude cannot, and never will do so.
Neither evil tongues, rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all the dreary intercourse of daily life, shall ever prevail against us.
Our haughty life is crowned with darkness, Like London with its own black wreath,
The good die first And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust Burn to the socket.
Many are our joysIn youth, but oh! what happiness to liveWhen every hour brings palpable accessOf knowledge, when all knowledge is delight,And sorrow is not there!
A mind forever voyaging through strange seas of thought, alone.
To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
What though the radiance which was once so bright Be not forever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; Grief not, rather find, Strength in what remains behind, In the primal sympathy Which having been must ever be, In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of Human suffering, In the faith that looks through death In years that bring philophic mind.
And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the lawIn calmness made, and sees what he foresaw.
How does the Meadow flower its bloom unfold Because the lovely little flower is free Down to its root, and in that freedom bold.
