William Wordsworth Quotes, Wind Quotes, Tasks Quotes

The wind, a sightless laborer, whistles at his task.

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When from our better selves we have too long been parted by the hurrying world, and droop. Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, how gracious, how benign is solitude.

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Lady of the Mere, Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.

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Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect

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A mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone.

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

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Stay, little cheerful Robin! stay, And at my casement sing, Though it should prove a farewell lay And this our parting spring. * * * * * Then, little Bird, this boon confer, Come, and my requiem sing, Nor fail to be the harbinger Of everlasting spring.

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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.

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By happy chance we saw A twofold image: on a grassy bank A snow-white ram, and in the crystal flood Another and the same!

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Fear is a cloak which old men huddle about their love, as if to keep it warm.

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Primroses, the Spring may love them; Summer knows but little of them.

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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.

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... and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.

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Truths that wake To perish never

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For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity.

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We have no knowledge, that is, no general principles drawn from the contemplation of particular facts, but what has been built up by pleasure, and exists in us by pleasure alone. The Man of Science, the Chemist and Mathematician, whatever difficulties and disgusts they may have had to struggle with, know and feel this. However painful may be the objects with which the Anatomist's knowledge is connected, he feels that his knowledge is pleasure; and where he has no pleasure he has no knowledge.

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O Reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle Reader! you would find A tale in everything.

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I have said that poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquillity: the emotion is contemplated till, by a species of reaction, the tranquillity gradually disappears, and an emotion, kindred to that which was before the subject of contemplation, is gradually produced, and does itself actually exist in the mind.

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The ocean is a mighty harmonist.

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The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration.

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