There is a luxury in self-dispraise And inward self-disparagement affords To meditative spleen a grateful feast.
More Quotes from William Wordsworth:
Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.William Wordsworth
A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky.
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The sightless Milton, with his hair Around his placid temples curled And Shakespeare at his side,a freight, If clay could think and mind were weight, For him who bore the world.
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Where is it now, the glory and the dream.
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All things that love the sun are out of doors.
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Wrongs unredressed, or insults unavenged.
William Wordsworth
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