William Wordsworth Quotes, Hope Quotes, Men Quotes

Yet tears to human suffering are due; And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown Are mourned by man, and not by man alone.

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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.

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That kill the bloom before its time, And blanch, without the owner's crime, The most resplendent hair.

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In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure, The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, And on the vacant air.

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Every great and original writer, in proportion as he is great and original, must himself create the taste by which he is to be relished.

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Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there In happier beauty; more pellucid streams, An ampler ether, a diviner air, And fields invested with purpureal gleams.

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the Mind of Man-- My haunt, and the main region of my song.

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Earth helped him with the cry of blood.

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

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That though the radiance which was once so bright be now forever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, glory in the flower. We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.

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Tags : William Wordsworth Quotes , Strength Quotes , Sympathy Quotes

Happier of happy though I be, like them I cannot take possession of the sky, mount with a thoughtless impulse, and wheel there, one of a mighty multitude whose way and motion is a harmony and dance magnificent.

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Tags : William Wordsworth Quotes , Sky Quotes , Way Quotes

The tears into his eyes were brought, And thanks and praises seemed to run So fast out of his heart, I thought They never would have done. -I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning; Alas! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left me mourning.

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A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays And confident tomorrows.

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These hoards of wealth you can unlock at will.

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Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry; and these we adore; Plain living and high thinking are no more.

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Truths that wake To perish never

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The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an angel's wing.

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Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.

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It may be safely affirmed that there neither is, nor can be, any essential difference between the language of prose and metrical composition.... They both speak by and to the same organs; the bodies in which both of them are clothed may be said to be of the same substance, their affections are kindred, and almost identical, not necessarily differing even in degree; Poetry sheds no tears "such as Angels weep," but natural and human tears; she can boast of no celestial ichor that distinguishes her vital juices from those of prose; the same human blood circulates through the veins of them both.

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A famous man is Robin Hood, The English ballad-singer's joy.

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