William Wordsworth


English Poet

Author Quotes

Who he was that piled these stones, and with the mossy sod first covered, and here taught this aged tree with its dark arms to form a circling bower, i well remember. ? he was one who owned no common soul. In youth by science nursed. And led by nature into a wild scene of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth a favoured being, knowing no desire which genius did not hallow; 'gainst the taint of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate, and scorn,? against all enemies prepared, all but neglect. The world, for so it thought, owed him no service; wherefore he at once with indignation turned himself away, and with the food of pride sustained his soul in solitude.

Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth? Come, blessed barrier between day and day, dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!

Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he that every man in arms should wish to be?

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

Who swerves from innocence, who makes divorce of that serene companion, a good name, recovers not his loss; but walks with shame, with doubt, with fear, and haply with remorse.

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.

Who, doomed to go in company with Pain And Fear and Bloodshed,-miserable train!- Turns his necessity to glorious gain.

Written in Early Spring I heard a thousand blended notes While in a grove I sate reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind. To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think What Man has made of Man.

Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, nor thought of tender happiness betray.

Wrongs unredressed, or insults unavenged.

Whatever is foretold by God will be done by man; but nothing will be done by man because it is foretold by God.

Why art thou silent! Is thy love a plant of such weak fibre that the treacherous air of absence withers what was once so fair?

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.

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!

Why do not words and kiss, and solemn pledge, And nature that is kind in woman's breast, And reason that in man is wise and good, And fear of Him who is a righteous Judge - Why do not these prevail for human life, To keep two hearts together, that be.

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

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.

Wild is the music of the autumnal wind among the faded woods.

Yet was Rob Roy as wise as brave; forgive me if the phrase be strong;? a Poet worthy of Rob Roy must scorn a timid song.

When his veering gait And every motion of his starry train Seem governed by a strain Of music, audible to him alone.

Will no one tell me what she sings? Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow for old, unhappy, far-off things and battles long ago.

Yon foaming flood seems motionless as ice; Its dizzy turbulence eludes the eye, Frozen by distance.

Where are your books? - that light bequeathed to beings else forlorn and blind! Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed from dead men to their kind.

Wisdom and spirit of the Universe! Thou soul is the eternity of thought! That giv'st to forms and images a breath and everlasting motion! Not in vain by day or star-light thus from by first dawn of childhood didst thou intertwine for me the passions that build up our human soul, not with the mean and vulgar works of man, but with high objects, with enduring things, with life and nature, purifying thus the elements of feeling and of thought, and sanctifying, by such discipline both pain and fear, until we recognize a grandeur in the beatings of the heart.

Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

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English Poet