William Wordsworth

William
Wordsworth
1770
1850

English Poet

Author Quotes

No bird, but an invisible thing, a voice, a mystery.

O dearest, dearest boy! my heart for better lore would seldom yearn, could I but teach the hundredth part of what from thee I learn.

Oh for a single hour of that Dundee who on that day the word of onset gave!

Our meddlesome intellect misshapen the beauteous form of things.

Rapt into still communion that transcends the imperfect offices of prayer and praise.

Small circles glittering idly in the moon, until they melted all into one track of sparkling light.

Stern winter loves a dirge-like sound.

That blessed mood in which the burthen of the mystery, in which the heavy and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world is lightened.

The cottage which was named the Evening Star is gone.

The human mind is capable of excitement without the application of gross and violent stimulants; and he must have a very faint perception of its beauty and dignity who does not know this.

The Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society, as it is spread over the whole earth, and over all time.

The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

There's not a nook within this solemn pass but were an apt confessional for one taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone, that life is but a tale of morning grass withered at eve.

Thou, while thy babes around thee cling, shalt show us how divine a thing a Woman may be made.

To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

We bow our heads before Thee, and we laud and magnify thy name Almighty God! But man is thy most awful instrument in working out a pure intent.

What we have loved, others will love, and we will teach them how; instruct them how the mind of man becomes a thousand times more beautiful than the earth on which he dwells...

No human ear shall ever hear me speak; no human dwelling ever give me food, or sleep, or rest: but, over waste and wild, in search of nothing, that this earth can give, but expiation, will I wander on -- a Man by pain and thought compelled to live, yet loathing life -- till anger is appeased in Heaven, and Mercy gives me leave to die.

O for a single hour of that Dundee, who on that day the word of onset gave!

Oh there is blessing in this gentle breeze, a visitant that while it fans my cheek doth seem half-conscious of the joy it brings from the green fields, and from yon azure sky. Whate'er its mission, the soft breeze can come to none more grateful than to me; escaped from the vast city, where I long had pined a discontented sojourner: now free, free as a bird to settle where I will.

Our meddling intellect misshapes the beauteous forms of things we murder to dissect.

Recognizes ever and anon the breeze of Nature stirring in his soul.

Small service is true service while it lasts. Of humblest friends, bright creature! Scorn not one: the daisy, by the shadow that it casts, protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun.

Still glides the Stream, and shall forever glide; the Form remains, the Function never dies.

That heareth not the loud winds when they call, and moveth all together, if it moves at all.

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

English Poet