William Wordsworth Quotes

Great God! I'd rather be a Pagan.

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Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And, even with something of a mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster child, her inmate man, Forget the glories he hath known And that imperial palace whence he came.

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Serene will be our days, and bright and happy will our nature be, when love is an unerring light, and joy its own security.

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The sightless Milton, with his hair Around his placid temples curled; And Shakespeare at his side,-a freight, If clay could think and mind were weight, For him who bore the world!

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A soul so pitiably forlorn, If such do on this earth abide, May season apathy with scorn, May turn indifference to pride; And still be not unblest- compared With him who grovels, self-debarred From all that lies within the scope Of holy faith and christian hope; Or, shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.

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Stop thinking for once in your life!

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But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.

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A babe, by intercourse of touch I held mute dialogues with my Mother's heart.

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What are fears but voices airy? Whispering harm where harm is not. And deluding the unwary Till the fatal bolt is shot!

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

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A simple child. That lightly draws its breath. And feels its life in every limb. What should it know of death?

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

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

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Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade Of that which once was great is passed away.

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Minds that have nothing to confer Find little to perceive.

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Rapt into still communion that transcends The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, His mind was a thanksgiving to the power That made him; it was blessedness and love!

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Oh, blank confusion! true epitome Of what the mighty City is herself, To thousands upon thousands of her sons, Living amid the same perpetual whirl Of trivial objects, melted and reduced To one identity.

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That inward eye/ Which is the bliss of solitude.

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Bright was the summer's noon when quickening steps Followed each other till a dreary moor Was crossed, a bare ridge clomb, upon whose top Standing alone, as from a rampart's edge, I overlooked the bed of Windermere, Like a vast river, stretching in the sun.

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And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.

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Tags : William Wordsworth Quotes , Heart Quotes , Men Quotes