William Wordsworth


English Poet

Author Quotes

One with more of soul in his face than words on his tongue.

Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge ? it is as immortal as the heart of man.

She lived unknown, and few could know when lucy ceased to be; but she is in her grave, and, oh, the difference to me!

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.

Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense.

The cattle are grazing, their heads never raising; there are forty feeding like one!

The good old rule sufficeth them, the simple plan, that they should take, who have the power, and they should keep who can.

The music in my heart I bore long after it was heard no more.

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.

Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; and all that mighty heart is lying still!

Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room; and hermits are contented with their cells.

Oft in my way have I stood still, though but a casual passenger, so much I felt the awfulness of life.

Or shipwrecked, kindles on the coast false fires, that others may be lost.

Poetry is the image of man and nature.

She seemed a thing that could not feel the touch of earthly years.

Splendor in the Grass - What though the radiance which was once so bright be now for ever taken from my sight, though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower, we will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind; in the primal sympathy which having been must ever be; in the soothing thoughts that spring out of human suffering; in the faith that looks through death, in years that bring the philosophic mind.

Ten thousand saw I at a glance/ Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The charities that soothe, and heal, and bless, lie scattered at the feet of men like flowers.

The grim shape towered up between me and the stars, and still, for so it seemed, with purpose of its own and measured motion like a living thing, strode after me.

The noble Living and the noble Dead.

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English Poet