William Wordsworth Quotes (419 Quotes)



    One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.



    More like a man; Flying from something that he dreads than one; Who sought the thing he loved.


    Scorn not the sonnet. Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart.


    No human ear shall ever hear me speak; No human dwelling ever give me food, Or sleep, or rest but, over waste and wild, In search of nothing, that this earth can give, But expiation, will I wander on --A Man by pain and thought compelled to live, Yet loathing life -- till anger is appeased; In Heaven, and Mercy gives me leave to die.

    Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.

    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.


    How does the Meadow flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free down to its root, and in that freedom bold.

    Those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings, Blank misgivings of a creature Moving about in worlds not realized, High instincts before which our mortal nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised.


    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. . .

    All things have second birthThe earthquake is not satisfied at once.

    I travelled among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea; Nor England did I know till then; What love I bore to thee.


    Happier of happy though I be, like them; I cannot take possession of the sky, Mount with a thoughtless impulse, and wheel there, One of a mighty multitude whose way; And motion is a harmony and dance; Magnificent.


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

    The common growth of Mother Earth Suffices me,her tears, her mirth, Her humblest mirth and tears.

    Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene, The work of Fancy, or some happy tone; Of meditation, slipping in between; The beauty coming and the beauty gone.

    A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard; In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seas; Among the farthest Hebrides.

    Twas pastime to be bound; Within the sonnet's scanty plot of ground; Pleased if some souls (for such there needs must be)Who have felt the weight of too much liberty, Should find brief solace there, as I have found.

    But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.

    Who is the happy warrior Who is he; That every man in arms should wish to be.

    Me this unchartered 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.



    O dearest, dearest boy my heartFor better lore would seldom yearn,Could I but teach the hundredth partOf what from thee I learn.


    Until a man might travel twelve stout miles, Or reap an acre of his neighbor's corn.

    That though the radiance which was once so bright be now forever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, glory in the flower. We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.

    A sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean and the living air And the blue sky, and in the mind of man, A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things.

    A primrose by a river's brim A yellow primrose was to him, And it was nothing more.

    I am already kindly disposed towards you. My friendship it is not in my power to give this is a gift which no man can make, it is not in our own power a sound and healthy friendship is the growth of time and circumstance, it will spring up and thrive.


    And so the grandeur of the Forest-treeComes not by casting in a formal mould,But from its own divine vitality.

    Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting The soul that rises with us, our life's star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar. Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory, do we come From God, who is our home Heaven lies about us in our infancy.

    Look for the stars, you'll say that there are noneLook up a second time, and, one by one,You mark them twinkling out with silvery light,And wonder how they could elude the sight


    Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour Have passed away less happy than the one That by the unwilling ploughshare died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love.


    Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry; and these we adore; Plain living and high thinking are no more.

    Hearing often-times; The still, sad music of humanity, Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power; To chasten and subdue.

    Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. Not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come.

    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


    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.


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