William Wordsworth Quotes (419 Quotes)

Our noisy years seem moments in the being of the eternal silence.

For Nature then . . . To me was all in all.

Earth has not anything to show more fair Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty This city now doth, like a garment, wear The beauty of the morning silent, bare.

The harvest of a quiet eye, That broods and sleeps on his own heart.

Fear is a cloak which old men huddle about their love, as if to keep it warm.

The reason firm, the temperate will. Endurance, foresight, strength and skill.

From the body of one guilty deed a 1000 ghostly fears and haunting thoughts proceed.

But Thy most dreaded instrument In working out a pure intent, Is man, - arrayed for mutual slaughter, - Yes Carnage is Thy daughter.

As if his whole vocationWere endless imitation.

Stern Daughter of the Voice of God.

The rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the rose.

I listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.

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

Wisdom is ofttimes nearer when we stoop Than when we soar,

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.

Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all The dreary intercourse of daily life.

For still, the more he works, the more; Do his weak ankles swell.

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

The winds come to me from the fields of sleep.

Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart.

Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf; Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself.

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

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

There 's something in a flying horse, There 's something in a huge balloon.

This city now doth, like a garment, wear The beauty of the morning silent bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie Open unto the fields and to the sky All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

Spade with which Wilkinson hath tilled his lands, And shaped these pleasant walks by Emont's side, Thou art a tool of honor in my hands, I press thee, through a yielding soil, with pride.

And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.

'Tis said that some have died for love.

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

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem; Apparelled in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream.

Provoke; The years to bring the inevitable yoke.

Nature never did betray the heart that loved her.

O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song; That whistles in the wind.

The waves beside them danced but they; Out-did the sparkling waves in glee; A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company.

Thrice welcome, darling of the spring; Even yet thou art to me; No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery.

Science appears but what in truth she is, Not as our glory and our absolute boast, But as a succedaneum, and a prop; To our infirmity.

We have within ourselvesEnough to fill the present day with joy,And overspread the future years with hope.

Often have I sighed to measure By myself a lonely pleasure, Sighed to think I read a book, Only read, perhaps, by me.

And mighty poets in their misery dead.

Behold the child among his new-born blisses, A six-years' darling of a pigmy size.

Surprised by joy - impatient as the wind; I turned to share the transport.

Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.

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

Like an army defeated; The snow hath retreated.

Great God I 'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn, So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea, Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

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

There was a boy ye knew him well, ye cliffs; And islands of Winander.

Truths that wake, To perish never.

Four years and thirty, told this very week,Have I been now a sojourner on earth,And yet the morning gladness is not goneWhich then was in my mind.

Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong.