A Quote by William Wordsworth

The fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world Have hung upon the beatings of my heart. — © William Wordsworth
The fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.
But who can count the beatings of the lonely heart?
I find it, as ever, very unprofitable to have much to do with men. It is sowing the wind, but not reaping even the whirlwind; onlyreaping an unprofitable calm and stagnation. Our conversation is a smooth, and civil, and never-ending speculation merely.
One morning, in cool blood, I slipped a noose about its neck and hung it to the limb of a tree; — hung it with the tears streaming from my eyes, and with the bitterest remorse at my heart; — hung it because I knew that it had loved me, and because I felt it had given me no reason of offence; — hung it because I knew that in so doing I was committing a sin — a deadly sin that would so jeopardize my immortal soul as to place it — if such a thing were possible — even beyond the reach of the infinite mercy of the Most Merciful and Most Terrible God.
I am very lucky that I get to tell stories for a living. I love being able to grab people's attention, to keep them turning the pages, to make them stay awake all night. I want to stir the pulse, yes, but also to stir the heart. I hope 'The Woods' does that.
The beatings, the beatings were so normal to me. The abuse was just routine. I didn't wake up the next day and say, 'Dre, why did you hit me?' We never talked about it the next day. Never.
I'm crazily organised with my wardrobe. Everything is hung in categories: dresses, jackets, shirts, skirts and trousers are all hung in order, and they're then hung in colour order, too, so that when I'm looking for something I know exactly where it is.
These individulas have riches just as we say that we 'have a fever,' when really the fever has us.
Love was a fever that came along a few years after chicken-pox and measles and scarlet fever.
The heart is a gate-less gate to divinity. Move to the heart. We are all hung up, stuck in the head - that is our problem. The only problem is that we think too much. There is only one solution - get down from the head to the heart. All your problems will disappear. Problems are created by the head. The heart is innocent. The heart is a fountain of love.
When action grows unprofitable, gather information; when information grows unprofitable, sleep.
Impatience turns an ague into a fever, a fever to the plague, fear into despair, anger into rage, loss into madness, and sorrow to amazement.
Every dance is a kind of fever chart, a graph of the heart.
Songs are the pulse of a nation's heart. A fever chart of its health.
Rage-the biggest, truest rage of her adult life-had invaded her like a fever, but it wasn't like any fever she had known previously. It circulated like weird serum, cold on the right side of her body, then hot on the left, where her heart was. It seemed to come nowhere near her head, which remained clear.
I am glad it cannot happen twice, the fever of first love. For it is a fever, and a burden, too, whatever the poets may say.
Cruel impulses stir all about my kindly heart.
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