Top 480 Quotes & Sayings by William Wordsworth - Page 8

One of those heavenly days that cannot die.

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

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

Great God! I'd rather be a Pagan.

Society became my glittering bride, And airy hopes my children.

Knowing that Nature never did betray the heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege, through all the years of this our life, to lead from joy to joy.

Ah, what a warning for a thoughtless man, Could field or grove, could any spot of earth, Show to his eye an image of the pangs Which it hath witnessed,-render back an echo Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod!

Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.

Behold the Child among his new-born blisses A six years' Darling of a pigmy size! See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly-learned art.

The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink I heard a voice it said Drink, pretty creature, drink'

We must be free or die, who speak the tongue That Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold Which Milton held.

As generations come and go, Their arts, their customs, ebb and flow; Fate, fortune, sweep strong powers away, And feeble, of themselves, decay.

I'm not talking about a "show me other walls of this thing" button, I mean a "stumble" button for wallbase.

For oft, when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood they flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude

The very flowers are sacred to the poor.

Oft on the dappled turf at ease I sit, and play with similes, Loose type of things through all degrees.

Ten thousand saw I at a glance, tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted.

Laying out grounds may be considered a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.

Sweet childish days, that were as long, As twenty days are now.

Let the moon shine on the in thy solitary walk; and let the misty mountain-winds be free to blow against thee.

Therefore am I still a lover of the meadows and the woods, and mountains; and of all that we behold from this green earth.

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.

For nature then to me was all in all.

The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.

Plain living and high thinking are no more.

A simple child. That lightly draws its breath. And feels its life in every limb. What should it know of death?

Yet sometimes, when the secret cup Of still and serious thought went round, It seemed as if he drank it up, He felt with spirit so profound.

Those old credulities, to Nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock Of history?

We bow our heads before Thee, and we laud, And magnify thy name Almighty God! But man is thy most awful instrument, In working out a pure intent.

Yet tears to human suffering are due; And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown Are mourned by man, and not by man alone.

I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, wherever nature led.

Bright flower! whose home is everywhere Bold in maternal nature's care And all the long year through the heir Of joy or sorrow, Methinks that there abides in thee Some concord with humanity, Given to no other flower I see The forest through.

Wisdom and spirit of the Universe!

His high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright.

And he is oft the wisest manWho is not wise at all.

He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.

And oft I thought (my fancy was-so strong) That I, at last, a resting-place had found: 'Here: will I dwell,' said I,' my whole life long, Roaming the illimitable waters round; Here will I live, of all but heaven disowned. And end my days upon the peaceful flood - To break my dream the vessel reached its bound; And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.

Nor less I deem that there are Powers Which of themselves our minds impress; That we can feed this mind of ours In a wise passiveness

Nor will I then thy modest grace forget, Chaste Snow-drop, venturous harbinger of Spring, And pensive monitor of fleeting years!

With little here to do or see Of things that in the great world be, Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee For thou art worthy, Thou unassuming commonplace Of Nature, with that homely face, And yet with something of a grace Which love makes for thee!

Enough, if something from our hands have power To live, and act, and serve the future hour; And if, as toward the silent tomb we go, Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, We feel that we are greater than we know.

The vision and the faculty divine; Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse.

Long as there's a sun that sets, Primroses will have their glory; Long as there are violets, They will have a place in story: There's a flower that shall be mine, 'Tis the little Celandine.

On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, Musing in solitude, I oft perceive Fair trains of images before me rise, Accompanied by feelings of delight Pure, or with no unpleasing sadness mixed.

The thought of death sits easy on the man Who has been born and dies among the mountains.

"One impulse from a vernal wood

Burn all the statutes and their shelves: They stir us up against our kind; And worse, against ourselves.

Now when the primrose makes a splendid show, And lilies face the March-winds in full blow, And humbler growths as moved with one desire Put on, to welcome spring, their best attire, Poor Robin is yet flowerless; but how gay With his red stalks upon this sunny day!

The primal duties shine aloft, like stars; The charities that soothe, and heal, and bless, Are scattered at the feet of Man, like flowers.

Primroses, the Spring may love them; Summer knows but little of them.

Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, Let them live upon their praises.

In spite of difference of soil and climate, of language and manners, of laws and customs-in spite of things silently gone out of mind, and things violently destroyed, the Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society, as it is spread over the whole earth, and over all time.

A soul so pitiably forlorn, If such do on this earth abide, May season apathy with scorn, May turn indifference to pride; And still be not unblest- compared With him who grovels, self-debarred From all that lies within the scope Of holy faith and christian hope; Or, shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.

But to a higher mark than song can reach, Rose this pure eloquence.

That to this mountain-daisy's self were known The beauty of its star-shaped shadow, thrown On the smooth surface of this naked stone!

No motion has she now, no force; she neither hears nor sees; rolled around in earth's diurnal course, with rocks, and stones, and trees.

The daisy, by the shadow that it casts, Protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun.

Huge and mighty forms that do not live like living men, moved slowly through the mind by day and were trouble to my dreams.

Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares!- The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays.