William Wordsworth Quotes

Babylon, Learned and wise, hath perished utterly, Nor leaves her speech one word to aid the sigh That would lament her.

A genial hearth, a hospitable board, and a refined rusticity.

What know we of the Blest above but that they sing, and that they love?

A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

His love was like the liberal air, embracing all, to cheer and bless.

Hearing often-times the still, sad music of humanity, nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power to chasten and subdue.

Delivered from the galling yoke of time.

Every gift of noble origin Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath.

Books! tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it.

Let beeves and home-bred kine partake The sweets of Burn-mill meadow; The swan on still St. Mary's Lake Float double, swan and shadow!

'T is hers to pluck the amaranthine flower Of faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower, And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.

At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.

I'll teach my boy the sweetest things; I'll teach him how the owlet sings.

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.

Oh for a single hour of that Dundee Who on that day the word of onset gave!

Tis said, fantastic ocean doth enfold The likeness of whate'er on land is seen.

Monastic brotherhood, upon rock Aerial.

The Poet, gentle creature as he is, Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times; His fits when he is neither sick nor well, Though no distress be near him but his own Unmanageable thoughts.

Minds that have nothing to confer Find little to perceive.

There is One great society alone on earth: The noble living and the noble dead.

As in the eye of Nature he has lived, So in the eye of Nature let him die!

The earth was all before me. With a heart Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty, I look about; and should the chosen guide Be nothing better than a wandering cloud, I cannot miss my way.

But who, if he be called upon to face Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined Great issues, good or bad for humankind, Is happy as a lover.

A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free.

Earth has not anything to show more fair.

Poetry is the outcome of emotions recollected in tranquility.

Because the good old rule Sufficeth them,-the simple plan, That they should take who have the power, And they should keep who can.

Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there In happier beauty; more pellucid streams, An ampler ether, a diviner air, And fields invested with purpureal gleams.

And 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.

And the most difficult of tasks to keep Heights which the soul is competent to gain.

The eye— it cannot choose but see; we cannot bid the ear be still; our bodies feel, where'er they be, against or with our will.

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: We murder to dissect.

With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars.

Men who can hear the Decalogue, and feel To self-reproach.

Meek Walton's heavenly memory.

Choice word and measured phrase above the reach Of ordinary men.

Then blame not those who, by the mightiest lever Known to the moral world, Imagination.

The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.

Stop thinking for once in your life!

Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion.

Take the sweet poetry of life away, and what remains behind?

The budding rose above the rose full blown.

Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns.

Truth takes no account of centuries.

These hoards of wealth you can unlock at will.

Me this uncharted freedom tires; I feel the weight of chance desires, My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same.

Wisdom and Spirit of the universe! Thou soul, that art the eternity of thought, And giv'st to forms and images a breath And everlasting motion.

A light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove.

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

One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave.