William Wordsworth

William
Wordsworth
1770
1850

English Poet

Author Quotes

The gods approve the depth, and not the tumult, of the soul.

The mind that is wise mourns less for what age takes away; than what it leaves behind.

The stars are mansions built by nature's hand, and, haply, there the spirits of the blest dwell, clothed in radiance, their immortal rest.

There neither is, nor can be any essential difference between the language of prose and metrical composition.

Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep thy heritage, thou eye among the blind.

To character and success, two things, contradictory as they may seem, must go together-humble dependence and manly independence: humble dependence on God, and manly reliance on self.

unwearied in that service: rather say with warmer love, oh! With far deeper zeal of holier love. Now wilt thou then forget, that after many wanderings, many years of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, and this green pastoral landscape, were to me more dear, both for themselves, and for thy sake.

What fond and wayward thoughts will slide into a lover's head! "o mercy!" to myself i cried, "if lucy should be dead!"

not, rather find strength in what remains behind.

Of vast circumference and gloom profound, This solitary Tree! A living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay; Of form and aspect too magnificent To be destroyed.

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

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

She hath smiles to earth unknown?smiles that with motion of their own do spread, and sink, and rise.

Something between a hindrance and a help.

'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.

The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep no more shall grief of mine the season wrong; I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng, the Winds come to me from the fields of sleep.

The good die first; and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust burn to the socket.

The monumental pomp of age was with this goodly personage; a stature undepressed in size, unbent, which rather seemed to rise in open victory o'er the weight of seventy years, to loftier height.

The stars of midnight shall be dear to her; and she shall lean her ear in many a secret place where rivulets dance their wayward round, and beauty born of murmuring sound shall pass into her face.

There was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs and islands of Winander!--many a time, at evening, when the earliest stars began to move along the edges of the hills, rising or setting, would he stand alone, beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake; and there, with fingers interwoven, both hands pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth uplifted, he, as through an instrument, blew mimic hootings to the silent owls, that they might answer him.--And they would shout across the watery vale, and shout again, responsive to his call,--with quivering peals, and long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild of jocund din! And, when there came a pause of silence such as baffled his best skill: then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise has carried far into his heart the voice of mountain-torrents; or the visible scene would enter unawares into his mind with all its solemn imagery, its rocks, its woods, and that uncertain heaven received into the bosom of the steady lake. This boy was taken from his mates, and died in childhood, ere he was full twelve years old. Pre-eminent in beauty is the vale where he was born and bred: the churchyard hangs upon a slope above the village-school; and, through that church-yard when my way has led on summer-evenings, I believe, that there a long half-hour together I have stood mute--looking at the grave in which he lies!

Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong; and the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are fresh and strong.

To every Form of being is assigned, Thus calmly spoke the venerable Sage, an active Principle.

Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks; why all this toil and trouble?

What is a Poet?...He is a man speaking to men: a man, it is true, endowed with more lively sensibility, more enthusiasm and tenderness, who has a greater knowledge of human nature, and a more comprehensive soul, than are supposed to be common among mankind; a man pleased with his own passions and volitions, and who rejoices more than other men in the spirit of life that is in him; delighting to contemplate similar volitions and passions as manifested in the goings-on of the Universe, and habitually impelled to create them where he does not find them.

Nature's old felicities.

Author Picture
First Name
William
Last Name
Wordsworth
Birth Date
1770
Death Date
1850
Bio

English Poet