William Wordsworth


English Poet

Author Quotes

Wisdom married to immortal verse.

Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go? Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day, festively she puts forth in trim array.

With an eye made quiet by the power of harmony.

Where music dwells lingering and wandering on as loth to die, like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof that they were born for immortality.

With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars.

Where the statue stood of newton with his prism and silent face, the marble index of a mind for ever voyaging through strange seas of thought, alone.

With gentle hand touch -- for there is a spirit in the woods.

Whether we be young or old, our destiny, our being's heart and home, is with infinitude, and only there; with hope it is, hope that can never die, effort and expectation, and desire, and something evermore about to be.

With hope it is, hope that can never die, effort, and expectation, and desire, and something evermore about to be.

Whither is fled the visionary gleam? Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

With Nature never do they wage a foolish strife; they see a happy youth, and their old age is beautiful and free.

Neither evil tongues, rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all the dreary intercourse of daily life, shall ever prevail against us.

O Blithe newcomer! I have heard, I hear thee and rejoice. O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, or but a wandering Voice?

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

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.

Provoke the years to bring the inevitable yoke.

She Was A Phantom of Delight when first she gleam'd upon my sight; a lovely Apparition, sent to be a moment's ornament: her eyes as stars of twilight fair; like twilight's, too, her dusky hair; but all things else about her drawn from May-time and the cheerful dawn; a dancing shape, an image gay, to haunt, to startle, and waylay. I saw her upon nearer view, a Spirit, yet a Woman too! Her household motions light and free, and steps of virgin liberty; a countenance in which did meet sweet records, promises as sweet; 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. And now I see with eye serene the very pulse of the machine; a being breathing thoughtful breath, a traveler between life and death: the reason firm, the temperate will, endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; a perfect Woman, nobly plann'd to warn, to comfort, and command; and yet a Spirit still, and bright with something of an angel light.

Stepping westward seemed to be a kind of heavenly destiny.

Thanks to the human heart by which we live, thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and its fears, to me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

The clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober colouring from an eye That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality.

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

The ocean is a mighty harmonist.

The sweetest thing that ever grew beside a human door!

Therefore, let the moon shine on thee in thy solitary walk; And let the misty-mountain winds be free to blow against thee.

Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year; and worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not.

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English Poet